bloodsport (fighting in a love war)
by swaggercaptain
Summary: rival assassins AU: they live in a world rife with death and destruction (of which they are often the cause) - is it even possible to feel anything other than the thrill of the kill?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So basically, this is not going to be your atypical linear story where each chapter picks up where the last left off - it's really just a bunch of one-shots strung together in order of occurrence so they're shorter than my other ones but they'll also be updated a lot quicker. I really hope you guys all like it, and feel free to send prompts to my tumblr for these two idiots. Voila!**

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_1\. even angels sin: Killian Jones comes across a very interesting blonde._

The first time their paths cross, it happens in the heart of a brothel (of all places). He sits in a booth, leaning languidly against the plush red cushions as prospective women swirl around the room in delicate lace lingerie that leaves little to the imagination.

His disreputable peers claw at them with greedy paws and open pockets, scurrying after them like dogs desperate for a rub.

Though he does not make a move to purchase his pleasure (god knows he can get _that _for free), he nevertheless peruses the room. To the untrained eye he is searching for a companion; his focus, however, is on someone else completely.

His target enters the establishment shortly after Killian arrives. A regular at this particular club, the stout man leers at the crowd of courtesans that fawn over his entrance. There are two burly guards stationed behind him, but they are quickly preoccupied by the more lavish attractions of the enterprise, trailing behind several women beckoning them with sultry smirks and crooked fingers.

Killian's fingers drift across the blade he has strapped to his wrist, masked by his blazer and the shadows concealing him in the back corner of the large room.

Smirking to himself, he contemplates the new arms he will purchase with his pay cheque. There is nothing that makes Killian Jones happier than a shiny new gun in his ever-expanding repertoire of weaponry.

He watches his target idly as the robust man draws away from the crowd of ambitious ladies. His eye has been caught by someone else, and Killian follows the man's line of sight to where a blonde is perched atop a plush chaise on the opposite side of the room.

And really, he cannot fault the man's taste.

Her pallid skin glows in the low light, hair like spun gold falling in curls down her back as she returns his hungry gaze with a simper and stands at his approach.

She looks like an angel with all the unbridled lust of a vixen.

There is no trace of shame to the heat that stirs in his lower abdomen. After all, it's been a while (the mercenary business is surprisingly thriving of late – leaving little time for the more lascivious pleasures of life).

And she really is something else.

Taking his heavy hand in hers, she begins to lead the target towards one of the curtained rooms that line the east wall of the joint - heavy burgundy fabric shuttering off the private sections where the high-paying clientele can enjoy their purchases for the evening.

It is then that Killian stands, reaffirming his grip on the knife hidden in his sleeve and sifting through the crowds of writhing men and women. This is the window of opportunity he's been waiting for: seclusion makes for a clean death.

The crowds are not dense enough to completely obscure his view of his mark and he sees the blonde gesture for him to go first into the small room. His stubby hand drifts deliberately over her ass as he obliges, strutting past her into the private chamber – and though she simpers at the action, the dark shadow that crosses her features denotes something dangerous.

The way she scans the immediate vicinity before drawing the curtains closed piques his interest as well.

For a split second, her sultry facade drops to reveal something far colder, far more calculating: he's tempted to call it _lethal_.

It is another three minutes at most before he finally reaches the other side of the room, the flailing masses of customers and courtesans impeding his direct path. And as he walks calmly toward the target's location, he watches the blonde woman slip inconspicuously out, closing the curtains behind her.

A weight settles in his gut. Not fear – there are only so few things that can induce terror in him and suspicious women is not among them.

She strides by him, a smile on her lips and a minuscule red stain on her previously pristine garter.

When her eye catches his, recognition glitters in the emerald green depths of her gaze. It's not reciprocal – he has _no idea_ who she is (he'd remember a face like hers).

As she passes, she definitely winks. He almost doesn't catch the way her expression screams, _'better luck next time'_ because he hurries his pace, alarm morphing into irritation at the overriding thought that dawns on him: she knows what he is.

Killian curses the moment he enters the private room. The man sits spread eagle across the leather couch, dark red blood seeping from the precise abrasion that runs the length of his neck.

As much as he wanted the money this rather lucrative job offered, he cannot help his begrudging admiration for the woman's gall.

By the time he sprints outside, she is already dressed head-to-toe in black, straddling a motorbike that roars to life before it thunders past him, disappearing into the night in a thick cloud of exhaust and cigarette smoke. Distantly, he acknowledges a horrified scream emanating from the brick edifice behind him, and starts to walk towards his hired sedan.

And for some godforsaken reason, he laughs. Low and deep and genuine.

Later, he asks Jefferson what alias she runs under in their circles.

He cannot think of a name more fitting than Swan.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: You are all fabulous and I love you.**

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_2\. curiosity killed the cat: He wants her first name; she wants to eat his ego. _

"What's your name?" he asks, tipping his head to the side, scanning her from top to bottom. She's wearing a tight red dress and heels, the multi-coloured strobe lights tinting her pearly skin a wide array of rather fetching colours.

She rolls her eyes and continues her assessment of the nightclub, ignoring him where he leans against the mahogany bar at her right.

Never let it be said that Killian Jones isn't a persistent man.

Her dismissal only endears him and he takes a measured sip from the glass of rum in his hand. They both know their mark won't arrive for another half hour at the very least (they both did their homework).

"You know love," he tells her smoothly, "while others may find your silence off-putting, it does nothing to deter me. In fact, your silence only makes me more curious."

"And don't you know curiosity killed the cat?" she finally retorts, still blankly examining the room.

"I'm sure the cat thought it was worth it."

"The cat was an idiot."

"Not a fan of felines then?"

Finally, she twists to face him. Her unimpressed expression deepens his already present smirk of amusement and induces a beat of wordless staring (glaring on her part) that passes between them. Then she's turning her attention to the bartender. She orders her drink in a flawless rendition of Spanish but does not address Killian again. In fact, she deliberately angles herself away from him.

He always did love a challenge.

"So is there any particular reason you're not telling me your name?"

The sidelong glance she shoots him is accompanied by the faintest twitch of her lips.

"A little birdy told me you already know it."

Killian narrows his eyes, "I know your alias. I want your _real_ name." He pauses, frowns, "How do you even know I searched your alias?"

She shrugs innocently, "I have friends."

He makes a mental note to ask Jefferson about that. The notion that she can trace his research habits unnerves him and annoys him in equal parts. For one, that kind of exposure can be fatal (Killian has, unsurprisingly, made enemies). For another thing, if she knows what he's been investigating then it won't be long before she's pilfering his clients. And that will not bode well for either of them – if anything, Killian is competitive.

There is another long pause where the nightclub's deafening music thunders in concussive booms around them. Vibrating in his blood stream as he refocuses on her.

"Come on, love. What's the harm in giving a humble acquaintance your name?" he leans closer, oozing charm. Her face is inches from his, yet she is stoic – about as affected by his proximity as she is by the macabre nature of her profession.

With schooled features, she cocks a sceptical eyebrow.

"You mean, what's the harm in giving my personal details to a rival merc?" she taps her chin and feigns deep thought, "_Hm_. I don't know." The sarcasm is thick enough to taste in the air and he grins before pulling away to an appropriate distance. Swan's eyes never leave his, a challenge in their emerald depths.

It occurs to him that the only way he'll extract personal information from her will require some brand of manipulation. Though he is averse to making any move to influence this woman, he is also ardently aware of her most predominant flaw: her egotism. She's a woman who eats men for breakfast and picks her teeth with their bones. So, it naturally follows that all he has to do is offer _his_ ego up on a platter – draw her into agreeing to a bet, one that will indubitably benefit her and embarrass him (should she win).

"Alright," he concedes with raised palms, "What about a wager?"

This catches her attention swiftly enough.

Sitting a little straighter, she sips lightly from her drink. With a nod of approval, he elucidates.

His answering grin is wicked.

"If I get the kill, I get your name. If you win…" he tilts his head in consideration, studying her, "I'll withdraw from the next four hits and refer the clients onto you."

"I'll get the next four kills _without _your referral."

_Arrogant bint._

Killian sighs, "Alright, how about this: I'll drop out of the merc game for four months. That's four months' worth of clientele, income and infamy without so much as a peep from me."

Even in the sporadic lighting of the nightclub, he can make out the way her face twists into a darker, demented version of enthusiasm. She purses her lips and twirls her drink with her finger. She's considering it.

Something about taking him down a notch must be incredibly appealing to her. Although, that _is _what he anticipated.

"How do I know you'll keep your word?"

"I consider myself an honourable man, a man with a code. And that means I seldom break my promises," he tells her, eyeing her with a strange sort of intensity.

"What will you do for four months?" she asks.

He shrugs, "Do you care?"

Mimicking his gesture, she shakes her head, "You're right. I don't."

"So do we have an accord?"

At length, Swan nods.

"Deal."

As she sways past him, she murmurs in his ear, "I need a new set of silencers anyway."

8888

Victory is sweet and her name is Emma (he just catches it through her zealous cursing as she stomps away from the nightclub, dress torn and stained by blood, carrying her ruined heels deftly by their straps) (the woman has the mouth of a sailor) (he appreciates that). The vowels and consonants roll deliciously over his tongue as he tastes it for the first time.

Emma Swan.

He rather likes it.

It suits her.

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**Review?**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Prompts can be sent via either PM or my tumblr - I do not mind which you choose. By the way, the first couple are short but they get longer (as my self-control gets weaker).**

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_3\. silk and blood and bullets: Killian seems to have a habit of running into Emma Swan but he can't say he minds when she looks like this. _

They stand in a marble ballroom. He wears a tailored suit, she wears a silk dress. And there are any number of weapons hidden on their person - granted hers must be in far harder to reach locations considering the way the thin material clings to her. It only makes him run his tongue along the edges of his teeth.

A man is standing at the front of the room, probably the host, prattling on about some philanthropic adventure or another – an altruistic diatribe that does nothing to stir warmth in the cockles of Killian's soul. He's fairly certain he doesn't even possess the intangible embodiment of conscience; or if he does, it's shrivelled and charred, burnt because this world is indiscriminately merciless. Then again, soullessness must be a common affliction in his profession.

Swallowing the bile that builds in his throat at the strangely unnerving thought, he wades discreetly through the crowd of affluent men and women until he stands directly behind her. He leans forward so his lips brush the shell of her ear. To his disappointment, she doesn't react to his proximity; not in the way he'd expected (he should know by now to dismantle any suppositions he has of this woman). She is as collected and calm as if a gentle breeze had simple rustled her dress.

"Fancy seeing _you_ here," he whispers.

Her eyebrows ascend her forehead, the soft material of her dress rippling as she rotates on the spot to face him, complimentary glass of champagne in hand. Evidently, she recognises his voice because there is no trace of surprise in her apathetic expression.

"And here I was thinking I might actually have a nice night."

"That hurts, darling," he rebukes, feigning insult. Then, with a shrug and a wolfish grin, "But where's the fun in no healthy competition, eh?"

She adopts a non-smile, baring her teeth derisively, "Calling you healthy competition seems like a _bit_ of a stretch don't you think?"

The jeer rolls right off his shoulders and he shuffles closer to her, very deliberately invading her space. Still, she remains unfazed, holding her own and maintaining his heavy gaze, even as his chest brushes against hers and the toes of his shoes nudge at hers.

"Remind me again, _how_ do I know your name?" he taunts knowingly.

Emma's face instantly darkens as they both recall a thriving nightclub, a dead man, and a very important bet. His smile, if possible, broadens as he drinks in her petulant expression, greedily committing it to memory. Then she rolls her eyes and turns to face the man still boasting his humanitarian exploits. Killian takes a step forward so they stand shoulder-to-shoulder, blindly watching this evening's benefactor.

"Besides," he murmurs, just loud enough to reach her ears, "There's only one reason you stole that first kill, darling. And that's because you had an unfair advantage."

If possible, her eyebrows rise even further as she takes a measured sip from her fluted glass of champagne.

"Oh?"

"Indeed. You see, we're on equal ground now. You cannot _seduce_ this target."

At some point in time, they returned to facing each other because now she's crowding _his _personal space as she leans closer, challenging him.

"How would you know?" she practically purrs, eyes sparkling under the chandelier's lighting.

He narrows his eyes, drinking in her image and canting his head to the side, "Because this one isn't looking for a romp and you know it - we both did the recon."

"You don't have to want sex to be seduced."

"Is that so?"

"Mmhmm," she hums.

"Prove it."

Emma's flicker transiently between his eyes and his lips, stoking the heat below his waist to grow into a steady flame. Then, with all the grace and prowess of a jungle cat, she takes a smooth yet abrupt step away from him, eyes glittering as she stifles their heady moment.

"You couldn't handle it."

She's turning around before he can say another word, whispering over her shoulder so only he can hear, "That and you _definitely_ want to have sex with me." She disappears into the crowd on a dismissive shrug.

Killian shakes his head, but can't ignore the twitching of his lips.

(Or the thick tension that still hangs between them in the air, choking him slowly – deliciously)

8888

They don't see each other until hours later when the ballroom is a cacophony of gunfire and smoke - she was wrong to assume she would be the only mercenary on this particular objective. The guests have all dispersed, scattering the moment they heard the thunderous clap of a gunshot. Now, the room is framed on all sides by ulteriorly motivated men and women scrambling to take out their mark who has, more or less, retired to the second landing for safekeeping.

Huddled behind a table, he can see Emma crouched behind a nearby wall, a thin line of blood trickling down her temple and staining the soft material of her dress. Which is a shame, really – it's a nice dress. He supposes mercenaries don't typically own very man nice things for that exact reason (they always, somehow, get destroyed or forgotten in the heat of a fight or the suddenness of flight).

_Her_ eyes are alight with the thrill of the fight.

Especially when they're the only ones left, bodies littering the downstairs ballroom, racing for the upstairs bedroom where the proverbial meal ticket awaits. He manages to trip her at the foot of the stairs, taking them two at a time as she swears profusely behind him. Over his shoulder, he sees her rip the bottom of the dress off and race after him with the improved mobility. But he's already advancing on the target, eyes on the prize.

So, naturally, Emma shoots him in the shoulder.

He stumbles but otherwise ignores the intense pain blossoming there. After all, he's ambidextrous and he has a job to do.

He shifts the gun to his left hand and buries two rounds in the target before Emma can so much as aim. Needless to say, he learns a thing or two about creative cussing when he next hears her voice.

8888

Eventually they find themselves outside, running from the mansion as the gunfire continues to pierce the night. His shoulder screams at him with every jaunt, but he's had worse (an incident with the Koreans comes to mind and he still winces just thinking about it). When they eventually stop, he leans heavily against a tree and turns to where she is breathing heavily at his left.

And yes, he is definitely smug when he tells her, "This healthy competition just got paid."

She rolls her eyes, cracks her neck and walks away. Not before slapping him in the shoulder. Bitch.

He watches her disappear into the darkness, a strange mixture of bitterness and fondness taking root inside of him. The bullet wound redraws his attention and he stares at the mangled skin beneath his soot-stained dress shirt. She shot him. So why doesn't he automatically despise her? Not many people have shot him and lived to tell the tale.

That thought plagues him.

There is a convoluted game of cat and mouse unfolding between them.

The only problem is that he's not quite sure who is the cat and who is the mouse.

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**Reviews are bullets in our lovebirds' guns.**


	4. Chapter 4

_4\. fool me once: Even merc's have a code._

Their eyes lock the second he pulls into the sterile office room, ice blue crashing against jade green in a violent meeting of land and sky. Holding his gun aloft, Killian moves slowly forward – she's standing directly between him and the mark, her weapon on the floor from where she'd discarded it in favour of bodily interrogating the man in the chair.

"Move."

A ghost of a smirk flits across her darkened features.

It almost unnerves him to see her void of her trademark characteristic: her subtle-branded mirth.

"Nope."

"I owe you a bullet, darling," he reminds her calmly, rolling his shoulder for emphasis. Spreading her arms wide, Emma merely shrugs, keeping her eyes trained on him – no doubt weighing up how quickly he can pull the trigger if she chooses to do something unbelievably stupid.

"Go ahead," she dares him.

The muffled anger swells in his gut, churning when he thinks about the fact that she _shot _him the last time they crossed paths. He certainly hasn't forgotten about it. He's been brainstorming his recompense for weeks now.

He's pulled back to reality when the man in the chair, sporting several bruises and a heavily split brow, whimpers pathetically. Killian rolls his eyes and takes another measured step forward. Emma tilts her head, shifting her weight resolutely, a silent reminder that she still impedes his path.

"Swan," he warns in a low voice.

"Yeah?"

"_Move_."

Again, she shakes her head and tips her head up in defiance. "Pull the trigger."

Somehow, she knows he just won't.

A part of him wants to do it just to show her he will. To defy her just for the inane bloody sake of it.

With narrowed eyes, he instead studies the intriguing way she has positioned herself, torso angled to shield the mark behind her. Craning his neck, he looks at the man again – he's trembling, bruises blossoming all over his face. It appears as though he's been sitting there for a significant amount of time. But Emma's not the type to play with her meal ticket.

"...Why haven't you killed him yet?" he asks, taking another step forward.

She matches it, closing some of the distance between them, "None of your business."

There's a pause, the clogs turning slowly, clicking and interlocking together within his skull.

"Are you _interrogating_ him?"

"Jealous?" Emma smirks, a deflection if he's ever seen one. For whatever reason, she's trying to hide her motives, shroud them in barbed quips and heavy scorn. She should know better than to make a ploy for distraction; it only piques his interest.

"_Oh yes_," he replies sarcastically, "I haven't had a good beating in a while."

"I bet."

Again, a pregnant pause stretches out where he analyses the scenario before him. Nothing about it screams possessiveness. So, he can rule out this job being personally linked to her – he knows with stunning clarity just what it feels like (and what it ultimately _looks _like) to want to be the one to kill someone for no other reason than the satisfaction of being the cause of their death. Shivers run down his spine as a hard bald face with beady eyes swims in his mind's eye. He shakes it off quickly.

Darting his gaze between the quivering man and her stoic mask, he tilts his head curiously. Even if she's not personally invested, there's an element to her approach that stumps him. Based on his observations of the target, her violent ministrations so far have been merciless. It screams of unfettered rage.

"Why are you interrogating him?" he asks with an earnest frown.

Emma's calm mask drops like an anvil, the simmering fury bubbling to life on her face, "None. Of. Your. _Business_."

Killian exhales heavily, exhausted. All he wants is to take out his mark, go home, and sleep. It's been a long day, and the only thing currently standing in the way of that is _her_.

He's not nearly psychologically prepared (or drunk enough) for her shit. Not today.

"Whatever. Your mother clearly never taught you not to play with your food," he says dismissively, striding towards her and throwing his other arm out to shove her blandly aside. However, she dodges and uses his momentum against him, knocking the weapon out of his hand and lobbing him on the shoulder in one smooth motion.

"I don't have a mother," she hisses, trying to kick him.

He catches her leg and pulls it up so she drops to the floor. He straddles her just as quickly.

"So fucking touchy."

For several moments they spar, until she lands a blow that has him seeing stars. Swaying on the spot, he makes a split-second decision to drop back down onto the floor and pretend she's knocked him unconscious. With slack features, he hears her stop and regain her composure, standing over him and no doubt assessing whether he still presents a formidable threat.

Evidently, she decides in the negative because her footsteps move away a moment later – moving in the direction of the man in the chair (he deliberately avoids asking himself why she doesn't take the opportunity his apparent stupor presents to kill him).

Killian strains his ears to hear, but he doesn't have to. Her cadence is as clear and cold as ice when she speaks to the man in a voice more menacing than anything he has ever heard.

"Where were we?" she purrs. He can just imagine her leaning down towards their mark.

"I've already _told_ you," he stammers frantically, "I don't –"

There's a harsh crack. She must have slapped him.

"_Please_, I have a _family_ -"

_Crack._

"I'm begging you - don't do this! I didn't do anythi -"

"We've gone through this. I know you're lying." She pauses, contemplative, and then says, "Even if I couldn't see through your shitty pokerface, I _saw _you there." He is silent, not even breathing, and Emma chuckles darkly, "Ah. I bet you didn't know that – did you?"

The man's tone changes dramatically, the desperate note gone from his inflection, "I know what you are, sweetheart. If you were there, it wasn't for a good reason." It almost sounds like he's taunting her, and something about that makes Killian's fists involuntarily clench. She doesn't snap though, unaffected as her footsteps ring out in the empty room. By the sounds of it, she's circling his chair.

"Maybe. But I don't hide behind a pretence of innocence and virtue. I don't pretend to help people and then _hurt them_," she snarls murderously.

Killian's brows furrow. He's never heard Emma so impassioned. Not that they've ever really sat down for tea to exchange their respective interests, but he's never really thought about her as anything other than a killer. And really, when your life's work is founded upon something as critical as death; it's difficult to contemplate the more trivial aspects of existence.

Passions, interests, like, dislikes – they all take a backseat.

Now though, he doesn't have to see her to know she's positively radiating with outrage over whatever this man did. Something in his mind shifts into position, a piece to her puzzle falling into place.

"Technically, _I_ didn't do anything," the man sneers. There's another crack, then the sound of someone spitting (most likely blood).

"But you let your henchmen do what they wanted, didn't you? They turned to you expecting to be reprimanded and you just fucking _laughed it off."_

"Why do you even care?" he grinds out, "Why does it matter to a killer-for-hire what I let my men do?"

The next crack is harder, hard enough to render him silent as she gnarls out her words in unmitigated fury (Killian is almost tempted to fear her in that moment, purely from the sound of her voice), "Those people were _innocent_! You told them you would protect them and then you let them suffer at the hands of your men because you thought it was _funny_ \- because it didn't matter to you what happened to a bunch of men, women and children that were _below_ you! They did nothing to you but ask for help and you threw them at the mercy of your men like _meat to a bunch of rabid dogs!_"

By the time she reaches the last sentence, she is roaring at the top of her lungs so her voice echoes off the walls.

Killian actually flinches.

The target spits again, and repeats himself, "But why do you _care_?"

There's silence and he risks her wrath to open his eyes, watching as she stands to her full height, looking down at the man with a mask of sudden indifference.

"Because I've still got morals, you two-bit piece of shit. And there are people who needed to hear you admit to that."

She pulls her phone out of her back pocket and shows him the screen where a tape recorder is being happily displayed. The man sputters as she smiles.

Then she shoots him, twice in the stomach so he cries out. She glances once at Killian as she turns around and leaves – never stopping, even when she notices he's conscious and watching her. The man moans and begs for help when Killian stands up and starts to walk out.

All it does is instil a deeper sense of rage in him – it doesn't take an expert to piece together a general description of what this man did (or, more accurately, what he callously allowed to happen).

He aims his weapon and fires. Not in his head – in his knee. The man screams, and continues to scream as Killian exits, making sure to break the handle on his way out.

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**Review?**


	5. Chapter 5

_5\. something else entirely: As much as he complains, Killian Jones enjoys the competition – why else would he help a fellow merc in their time of need?_

If there's one thing a mercenary likes to avoid on jobs – it's law enforcement. They, unsurprisingly, tend to condemn the profession under the pretence of ethics (or something equally pretentious like that). Personally, Killian believes they are all simply envious of the lucrative pay-packet. Unlike him, they cannot sideline their morals for the sake of pragmatism.

After all, isn't he just expediting a process that would take place with or without his aid? People kill each other all the time, it's nothing new. It's technically quite an archaic concept.

Unfortunately, they don't see it that way. As a result, oftentimes, part of eliminating a mark is dual parts attack and defence; especially in the case of political figures (those ones in particular are a _bitch_ to execute, but the pay tends to compensate graciously for the additional effort).

So, the singular most important thing a mercenary wants to avoid is getting caught by a nation's respective law enforcement agency.

Which is why he's currently leaping down a long winding stairwell three at a time, trying to reach the underground car park before they shut the building down completely. Alarms blaring in his ears, he still manages to make out the sound of officers thundering down the the steps that spiral above him.

Occasionally, a stray bullet will pierce the railing beside him so he sticks as close to the outer wall as possible.

He's just made it to the fourth floor when a door slams open in front of him and he has to skid to an abrupt halt just to avoid running into it. Whipping out his knife, he propels himself forward, kicking the door closed so the newcomer has to dart out and into his crosshairs to circumvent possible injury.

The newcomer is prepared though, shoving a foot into his knee before he can even aim his blade.

Gritting his teeth against the pain blossoming in his leg, he prepares to drive it through the person's chest – thankfully, he recognises her face before it can ever pierce her skin. Emma Swan, breathing heavily and clearly fresh from a fight if her bloodied brow is anything to base assumptions on, groans as she too takes him in.

"Hey beautiful, haven't seen you in a while."

She shoves him away so harshly he almost topples over the railing. A gunshot rings through the air, sparks flying as it hits the railing next to him and he flings himself away from the edge. However, Emma's already halfway down the next flight of stairs, heedless of his presence.

Above him, the shouting is getting louder (closer) and he curses, loping down after her.

They finally land on the bottom level, but they still need to cross through the hotel foyer before they can get to the underground level where the cars are parked. It seems this hotel had renovated the car garage after the initial building's erection since the stairwell isn't directly connected. An inconvenience, really.

She kicks open the door, he nudges her as it swings open – unapologetically forcing her to stumble aside as he tears past into the main lobby.

To his infinite lack of surprise, there are also officers crowding the wide, high-ceilinged room.

They shoot at him as he flies towards the elevator corridor, grazing several limbs but altogether arriving at his destination untouched. As he skids to a stop along the shiny ground, he punches the button and turns to see how Emma's faring, shit-eating grin already in place.

It disappears when he notices that she's stuck behind an elaborate, mahogany table across the opposite side of the room – unable to move with the showering of bullets currently whizzing past her makeshift cover.

The elevator doors open with a cheery ding and he stares at the empty little space beckoning him to safety.

He can leave right now, get down and get out while they're preoccupied with her. He can make a clean escape.

That, however, means she will most likely be arrested if not killed in the process. And based on what little he knows about Swan, he has a feeling she'd prefer the latter to the former. The mere thought of her being contained in a box has him shuddering in disapproval.

He owes her nothing.

They are rivals, vicious competitors in a highly dangerous sport. If anything, her death would serve to benefit him.

_She also shot you_; a bemused voice in the back of his head reminds him.

He grimaces as he remembers Victor extracting the bullet. Yet, that feeling of irritation doesn't even begin to swallow the deep-seated disgust that rises when he thinks about Emma being arrested. Loathe as he is to admit it, he enjoys the competition – it certainly makes things more interesting.

_Buggering fuck._

Killian turns on his heel. The elevator doors close.

He actively avoids over-analysing his actions.

Peeking around the corner, he notes the thick line of officers currently spraying bullets all over the lobby like confetti at a fucking Labour Day parade. Either they have terrible aim or they're _trying _to keep them pinned. He's more inclined to believe the latter since he knows, from personal experience, just how well they can usually aim.

His options are already limited, so when Killian spots a heavy gold mirror he pulls it roughly from its perch and scans the thick exterior. It's just big enough to shield him if he crouches and, based on the heavy metal backing, it should keep him somewhat safe. Or so he hopes.

Rolling his eyes at the utter absurdity of this decision, he bends his knees, positions the mirror and starts to move as quickly as he can across the floor towards her. The bullets thump against the surface at his right and he jolts when one snaps unnervingly close to his head.

When she catches sight of him, she glares and shouts, "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Something about her hostility makes him alter his answer from the truth to, "The elevators aren't working. We'll need to find another way down."

He reaches her and discards the mirror (it was about to give out anyway).

Squeezing in beside her, he dismisses their proximity and focuses on the way she scowls like she knows he was just lying. She can't prove it though so she shakes her head and throws a look over the table, assessing their human barricade again.

"We can't go through the front entrance and circle around to the back."

"_Obviously_," he derides.

Emma's glower heats his face, he smirks in return. Then she looks over her should and when she looks at him again, there's a roguish grin fixed upon her typically dispassionate features. He follows her previous line of sight to where a long line of windows looks down onto a garden – from there, the garage is a five second walk.

"Bloody hell," he breathes, wordlessly agreeing to her plan of action.

The door to the stairwell bursts open just as she pivots on her heel and runs, the other officers streaming into the room as they dart towards the window as fast as they can. Somehow, they manage to reach the window which is precisely when he realises just how stupid this idea was.

Some of the neighbouring glass panes have already been broken from the gunfire but it's too late to alter his course so he slams his bodyweight against the smooth surface in front of him. It shatters, allowing him to dive through.

For a second he is weightless, wind and glass and gunfire rushing past him.

Then he bends his knees reflexively and lands with a heavy thump in the thick shrubbery. It cushions the majority of his impact surprisingly well, but he can feel a thousand tiny scratches all along his arms and face and neck.

"Have you got a car?" he wheezes, standing up, brushing himself off and jogging towards the garage entrance. She sidles up to him and nods, unable to vocalise an answer when she clearly bore the brunt of her fall. He notes the pained expression on her face and adopts a mask of faux haughtiness - if only to save face.

"Good," he tells her as they turn into the dark area, "Because I don't. Which one is yours?"

She doesn't argue (which tells him just how hard she fell), just points to a silver Honda civic and pulls her keys out. There's a little dried blood on the keys, inducing some suspicion on his part whether the car is _actually _hers. Time is of the essence, though, and he snatches the keys from her and sprints ahead, "I'll drive."

Again, no arguments. Though she does berate him for being liberal on the clutch as they finally make their way out of the garage and across town, ditching the civic and hiding in an abandoned motor shop until the authorities give up.

She gives him a curious look before she abandons him in search of a hotel.

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**Don't make me beg for your reviews?**


	6. Chapter 6

_6\. losers weepers: They just keep running into each other._

His feet snap harshly against the linoleum floor as he sprints down the corridor, away from the flock of black-clad men chasing him. Skidding around a corner, he ignores the unmistakable burning of lactic acid in his legs and instead focuses on making his footfalls lighter as he puts some distance between him and his assailants. Their impassioned calls fade the longer he races through the maze-like passages until, breathless and boneless with exhaustion, he spots a supply closet.

If he keeps running, as he's been doing for the past hour, his legs will collapse under him and though endurance is a skill he's honed for decades; it's been a bloody long day. His decision made, he heads for the sweet salvation the isolated room offers. The way he figures it, he'll have enough time to string together some semblance of a plan while he catches his breath.

Killian jerks the door open and pulls it closed behind him in one fluid movement, sagging against it and exhaling heavily.

His respite lasts about a second as there is a distinctly feminine groan of disapproval – one he recognises well. Eyes still closed, he smirks.

He opens them to see Emma Swan, arms folded as she takes him in with tangible exasperation.

"Oh, come _on_," she moans, stamping her foot in a petulant show of frustration (he cannot withhold the amused smirk that materialises on his face when she does that), "Now I _know_ you're just following me."

Cocking an eyebrow, Killian pulls himself up from the door so he can face her directly, "Don't flatter yourself, love. I'm here for the same reason you are." She narrows her eyes, adopting a firm stance with her hands on her hips and her chin tilted up. Though he has almost a foot of height on her, she clearly knows how to emanate authority. A lesser man would be intimidated (he, on the other hand, only finds it endearing).

"Cynthia Parkwell?"

He gives her a curt nod, "That'd be the one."

Emma rolls her eyes and concedes, "Alright. That explains why you're here but not why you're _here_." She gestures to the small, dank room they're standing in with a cursory hand.

"I'm here because I was being chased by Parkwell's guards," he explains, wincing when he takes a particularly deep breath. By the feel of it, he's cracked some ribs – and he must have a wicked bruise on his cheek because her eyes keep dancing over his face. Occasionally, they linger on his lips but that's more likely to be because he split it when he was sparring with one of the guards earlier.

Looking up at him through her eyelashes, she exudes condescension when she coos, "Didn't think you could hack it?"

Flashes of his earlier fight blaze past his mind's eye in a blur of blood and bruises; Miss Parkwell is clearly very adept at selecting her guards. The men and women he fought were good (very good, actually). Just not as good as him (obviously).

Killian's face deadpans, unamused.

"I've got an idea - why don't _you_ go out and brawl them while I take out Parkwell?"

She scoffs, rolling her eyes and moving to step around him, "Fuck off. I got here first."

Nimble fingers securing purchase on her elbow, he drags her back around – much to her disdain. The glare she levels him with warns violent things if he doesn't remove his hand, so he does but he crowds her space to keep her from manoeuvring past.

"This isn't elementary school, Swan. You can't call dibs under the premise of finders keepers."

"Watch me," she grins, but it doesn't reach her eyes and it drops the second she moves. Again, she fails to slip past him as he wrenches her back around to face him.

"Oh, _no_ you don't," he manages as he reinforces his grip on her. This time, however, she struggles against his grasp. Whirring them both around, he has to restrain her bodily against one of the cold cement walls to keep her still. Holding her there, he watches with faint humour as the scorn evaporates from her face to leave thinly veiled outrage.

Emma's smile is razor-sharp, her tone gently derisive, "Let me go. I'd hate to damage that pretty face."

"You think I'm pretty?" he bats his eyelashes exaggeratedly but otherwise maintains eye contact.

"_You_ think you're pretty."

"Well," he shrugs, regretting it immediately because she expands on the opportunity the gesture provides, evading his swipes until they're standing a foot apart again, "You're not _wrong_." Emma rolls her eyes (one day they're going to roll right out of her head, he swears) and pivots unceremoniously on her heel, yanking open the door. It's only when she's halfway out of the room that he realises where she's going.

"Ass hole," she spits over her shoulder as she runs out of the room.

Needless to say, he chases after her.

And of course they don't make it very far before they come to a halt. In fact, they make it about five feet outside the heavy grey door when they both curse.

"Bugger."

"Shit."

As soon as they exit the supply room, over a dozen men in protective black gear appear around the corner at the end of the pristine hall. A short second passes where they are both held immobile in shock, and the cluster of black at the end of the hall is stationary. Then, without further preamble, the wall of black vests and helmets is moving towards them, raising their guns high and aiming.

"Go left," Emma orders, already tearing in that direction. The closet is located on the flat of a T intersection so he glances once in the opposite direction, contemplating splitting off for a mere moment before doing what she said.

"Why?" Killian asks suspiciously, even as he moves after her. It could be a trap; after all, it would actually benefit her to have him dead. The same way her demise would undoubtedly benefit him (she's actually become quite a nuisance lately – stealing his kills, and therefore his money).

(_You should have thought about that before you kept her alive the last time_, a voice whispers in his head.)

"Just trust me," she responds in a frustrated growl, "Come on!"

As they reach the end of the stretch of linoleum, they both turn. It's a dead end. He whips around to face her, condescending glare fixed in place. But, for some unexplainable reason, she's picking the lock on the door beside them. Though she glances occasionally over her shoulder, she is – for all intents and purposes – exposed.

The guards are still marching down towards them and he groans out some long-suffering sound, retrieving his gun and manoeuvring to cover her as she works on the lock. He takes down four men before there's a satisfying click behind him and he instinctively backs into the room after her.

He's just moved into the almost identical supply closet when she sticks her head out once. Whatever she sees pleases her because then she's spinning back into the room with an arrogant simper, plastering herself against one of the walls.

"Brace yourself."

"Wha-"

A thunderous clap echoes through the room, the distinct sound of cement cracking and penetrating the air just before he hears several cries of mixed surprise and pain. It shakes the entire building with a violent rumble and he has to shove himself against the wall, right beside Emma, to keep from toppling to his knees. Even then, he stumbles, losing his sense of equilibrium as the corridor outside seems to shatter. Displaced ash and dust filters into the room as the building groans and he gives the blonde beside him a sidelong glance.

"How did you know that corridor was going to explode?" he asks breathlessly, even though he really already knows the answer.

Her answering grin is undeniably smug. She holds up a small black devise with a silver switch, "Because I rigged them."

"_Oh_," is all he can muster as she takes a steadying breath. He can't deny he is impressed by her gall, if unsurprised.

"You're welcome."

She pushes up from the wall, cracks her gun, and saunters past him with a derisive leer - her eyes stay on his. Then she's gone and out the door and he has to rattle himself to remember what he's doing, what he's there for. It's a valuable waste of time too because by the time he _does_ eventually reach Miss Parkwell, she is slumped lifelessly over her desk and Swan is already perched on the window sill, saluting him once before dropping out of sight.

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**Review?**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I've had a couple of queries about whether we'll be getting any snapshots from Emma's perspective - at the moment, everything I've written has been from Killian's perspective but if I get a lightning rod of inspo for a piece from her POV I'm open to it (though I do kind of like the idea that you never _really _know what's going on in her head quite like you do Killian's)**

**Oh, and this was prompted by anon on tumblr: one day they bump into each other in a very mundane place, like a coffee shop and neither of them wants to believe the other that they are actually JUST having coffee and not here to murder someone?**

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_7\. your imperfections are quaint: Even mercenaries need a morning coffee sometimes._

There are approximately three places in his life that he does not associate to his job: his first home in Dublin, his brother's old apartment in London, and a coffee shop in the heart of New York called '_Fairytale Refreshments_.' It's a small thing, a secluded establishment nestled into a thick brick edifice in the South end of the city. With flaking leather seats and low-hanging lights that flicker occasionally whenever the building is jostled by the nearby train tracks, it exudes an air of homeliness he has yet to imitate anywhere else.

Something about it just feels untouchable, like entering a bubble of seclusion where the outside world doesn't exist and he's just another person stocking up on caffeine in the city that never sleeps. He likes that about New York.

That it's just as restless as he is.

And that he can get lost in it, fall into anonymity amidst the sea of faces. No one there recognises him, no one there knows what he does or who he is. It's nice to be just another ass hole.

So imagine his surprise when, as he waits in line for his long overdue coffee, he hears the small bell on the entrance ring - only to reveal a familiar face. A piece of him brightens at her unexpected appearance (_why does that even happen? She's a bloody menace and he detests her_), while another piece just groans in exasperation.

This is _his _place.

This is _his _escape.

And now he can't even evade _her_, nor the temporary trivial life he desires that her presence belies. The coffee house feels inexplicably tainted; whether for good or bad, he hasn't quite decided yet. That part still lies in the balance.

_Why God? Why?_

_What did he ever do to deserve this?_

Their eyes lock and her expression deadpans before she strides towards him, unwrapping her knitted scarf the entire time.

"No. You are not allowed here," Emma tells him petulantly, making him smirk with traceable scorn.

"Excuse me?"

He folds his arms across his chest, tilts his head and shits his weight - all in a derisive speculation that clearly makes her blood boil.

"You heard me - this is _my _place. Stop stalking me and find your own," she snaps, pointing to the door. The other patrons in the room are giving them strange looks and he rolls his eyes, stepping closer to the counter when one of the customers is served. She follows him, of course, stomping alongside him and glaring all the while at his apparent _audacity _to impede on her special spot.

"Actually, darling, I'm fairly certain you're the one who should leave. I've been coming here for three years now and I'm not about to sacrifice that just because we happened to bump into each other," he tells her.

Emma frowns, "You've been coming here for _three_ years?"

He nods and she shakes her head doubtfully, pointing an accusing finger at him.

"That's not possible. I've been coming here for ages too - we should have run into each other long before now."

"Or maybe," he says, leaning closer to her with a leer, "you're lying and you wanted to find another excuse to see me."

_That _tickles her temper and she huffs angrily as he finally reaches the counter. The attendant greets him warmly, familiarly, and then turns to Emma who he also apparently recognises. He points between them, but they are still staring at each other - a glaring match, really.

"Wait, you two know each other?" the waiter inquires.

"Yes," Killian says at the same time Emma snaps.

"_No_."

The man behind the cashier looks confused as ever but shakes it off enough to ask tentatively, "Do you guys just want your usuals?"

Both nod sharply, still caught in each other's irate gaze.

"Why do you have to ruin everything?" she hisses as he pays for the drinks and she snatches the receipt, leading him to where they wait for their respective beverages.

"I ruined nothing, you're the one who ruined it," he retorts, a childish sort of irritation banding them together.

"I hate you," she spits, and when a woman in a nearby booth shoots a disapproving look over her shoulder at them, she rolls her eyes and tells the lady, "Mind your own damn business, soccer mom." With a huff, the reproachful woman turns back to her coffee and Killian lifts a speculative eyebrow.

"So unnecessarily harsh."

"Shut up."

"As you wish."

They wait together in silence as their drinks are prepared, the only sound that of the muted buzzing conversation around them and the occasionally whirring of the machines letting off steam and dispensing scalding hot liquid. Leaning side-by-side against the wall, he spares the occasional glance in her direction.

She is a mirror image of him - arms folded, eyes fixed forward, face neutral despite the barely concealed annoyance simmering to life.

A twinge of guilt gnaws at his gut and he sighs.

"I'll find another place," he growls, just as their orders are called and he strides up to where the barista is holding both cups. He takes the first one he sees and turns to her as she takes hers.

She's watching him carefully, "Sorry?"

Killian shakes his head and looks over her shoulder, "You can have this place. I'll find another spot." He turns around and starts to forge a path for the door but she calls him back. Walking slowly across the room, she doesn't meet his eyes and she definitely chews the inside of her mouth as she shrugs.

"You don't have to find another place. I guess we can… _share_," she says it like it's a dirty word and he tilts his head down to regard her dubiously, until she adds, quickly, "I mean, I already steal all your kills. It wouldn't be fair to steal this place too."

He scoffs, she gives him a shit-eating grin and they both move to a booth in the back corner. There, he takes a sip of his takeaway cup at the same time she tips hers back.

They both come up spluttering, eye scrunched in equal measures of disgust and shock.

"What the bloody hell is this?"

"What is this shit?"

They both pause, their eyes lock, and without a word they swap cups.

It's another minute before she shakes her head at him.

"No offence, but that shit was so sickeningly sweet, I'm pretty sure you're going to get diabetes like all the other hipsters who drink that crap."

"Yeah?" he says defensively, gulping happily on his Chai latte, "Well yours is dark, dry, and bitter. Like _you_."

Emma glares into her cup to hide her snicker.

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**Pretty please review?**


	8. Chapter 8

**You are all awesome. **

**prompt: killian get's jealous over emma seducing a target (I actually got another one but the situation was vice versa - don't worry anon, I've written your prompt too but it's later because her getting jealous fit in much later so yeah)**

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_8\. little jade monsters: He's not jealous. He's _not.

There is something to be said for the evolution and development of warfare. At least, Killian can appreciate the aesthetic advancements over the past decade, especially when it makes his job infinitely simpler. Then again, even with long-range weapon systems, there's still the inexplicable issue of getting them into position where they won't be disturbed or unintentionally detonated. He doesn't often use explosives (partially because they're far too expensive to use on a regular basis and partially because he feels less pretentious getting his hands dirty), but this is one occasion where a bomb is both necessary and efficient.

By the time he reaches his vantage point, far away from the expected radius of the explosion, covered in sweat because running in this heat should be a crime, he is ready to collapse into a nice hotel bed, drink himself stupid, and sleep for at least two days. Although, that may be because the Korean ambassador's nephew, Jon, has a security guard that does not endorse explosive devices (surprise, surprise).

The hulking man watching his car was an absolute bitch to take down.

Now though, hidden safely away from the little bastard's convoy, he waits for the signal to set him alight.

Of course, Emma chooses that precise moment to hack into his comms.

"Jones, I'm thinking of going to dinner – what are some nice restaurants in your area?"

The taunting cadence of her voice sets him off, and he frowns suspiciously at the detonation device still flashing provocatively in his hand. The button yearns to be pressed, but he has to wait until he gets the call from Jefferson. She hums as she waits for his response. He can almost _see_ her loitering aimlessly around whatever room she currently inhabits. But she never calls him without a purpose; Emma simply isn't the type to make a social call.

Something about the situation smells off and he narrows his eyes.

"This isn't your convoluted way of asking me out to dinner, is it Swan?" he asks, scanning the surrounding buildings for any traces of her and coming up empty.

"In your dreams," she scoffs, "I've actually got a date tonight."

The sudden burning in his belly is nothing – it's definitely _not_ jealousy. His fists _do not_ clench involuntarily. His teeth most definitely _do_ _not _grind together at the thought of some other imbecile spending the evening with the undefinable enigma that is Emma Swan, being caught completely unawares by the treasure that's just happened to topple into his miserable lap.

Nope.

Not_ at all._

Killian Jones doesn't _do_ jealousy.

Certainly not for nuisances like Emma Swan.

"Poor bloke," he retorts through clenched teeth.

"Don't be jealous."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Emma sighs exaggeratedly and he hears a dull thud in the background, can imagine her flopping unceremoniously onto a bed.

"Actually, it's a rather important date," she says, the smirk obvious in her voice, "I mean, it's not every day you get a date with the Korean ambassador's nephew." The realisation drops over him like an anvil, resounding in his ears like a claxon, leaving him dumbfounded for several seconds. Then she keeps talking, a mocking victory woven into each syllable as she gloats, "He's actually picking me up first with his private convoy."

He actually snarls.

"I would send my condolences but I'm going to make sure he's dead long before you can traumatise him, sweetheart."

He's already storming down the stairs, sprinting towards a random car and jumping in to hot-wire it. In his ear, he hears her smug snickering and his foot falls flat against the ignition, propelling him forward with a precipitous jolt.

"It's cute that you think you'll have a shot."

"I still have a bomb," he retorts. Her lack of surprise would be unsettling if he didn't know she's probably had eyes on the bastard this entire time as well. His fingers are tight around the wheel, weaving in and out of traffic with decades of well-honed finesse.

"Yeah, I know," she tells him dismissively. The sound of a person knocking on her door filters through the headpiece and she stages a fake gasp (he can just see her animated expression, hand to her throat as she acts like she actually cares about this tryst). In hushed tones she warns him, "Good luck, Jones. You'll need it."

The line is silent again and he curses profusely.

Emma fucking Swan.

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Jefferson tracks her location easily – he watches the monitor on his screen, her little red dot making it abundantly clear that she is riding in the same car that has his recently purchased arms attached to its underside. And it's probably a bad decision but he does it anyway: he has Jefferson hack the line to her comms so she can hear him. Conversely, it also means he can hear her.

So he definitely catches the familiar smack of lips, something hot lodging in his throat when the carnal sound is interspersed by a very husky, very _feminine_ (very exaggerated, he notes belligerently)moan.

If he runs a red light or two on his journey towards them, it's hardly his fault.

"You are incredibly beautiful," Jon mutters breathlessly.

"You are incredibly stupid," Killian echoes in her ear.

She laughs – at whom, he cannot be sure.

"You're too sweet," she sing-songs in that fake affectionate tenor she reserves for these unfortunate fools.

He's heard her use it before, on men and women. Somehow, it always works. Only god knows how they don't see right through it.

Then again, depending on what she's wearing, their focus isn't always securely on what she's saying so much as how she's moving. It's a dangerous mistake they all make.

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When the _delightful_ couple arrive at the restaurant, the car is parked in an underground garage. He hears Jon's immodest narrations, leading her through _his_ restaurant's back entrance as he boasts until the background chatter grows and they are indubitably in the middle of the establishment. Killian pulls his car to a stop three blocks from the building, relishing in the screech of the tyres as he jerks it to a halt and jumps from the car.

Walking at a brisk pace, he heads for the restaurant.

"I see you hacked my line again," she says, and sighs, "I'll have to get Ruby to fix that."

She must be alone, her partner for the evening having left to take care of some business or another. Otherwise she wouldn't be speaking in the dulcet tones she reserves for their distinctive banter. Her next words confirm his suspicions.

"You know, while I appreciate your effort, I think using a bomb to take this moron out was a bit excessive," she comments with just the barest hint of reproach.

"You're right. _I _should have tried to get him on a date," he retorts, earning him a snort of amusement. For someone who is supposed to be incensed, he still cracks a smile at the jovial sound that wafts through the speaker in his ear. It's not often that Emma Swan smiles, let alone laughs.

"_Please_," she recovers quickly, all taunting vowels and knife-edge consonants, "There are a million other ways you could have done this one. I think you're just getting sloppy, Jones."

"Careful, Swan, I can press a button and blow your ass sky high anytime I want," he warns (an empty threat and they both know it). Especially since he's only one-hundred metres away now, so pressing the button would be rather counterproductive (suicide) at this stage (not that she knows that).

Suddenly, he has to question why he even brought the device; it's not as though it serves any alternative purpose. But then, he supposes he was somewhat _distracted_ when he exited the car.

Emma draws his attention back to their conversation, clicking her tongue in faux reprimand.

"All talk, no walk. Does it ever get tedious?"

"I don't know, you tell me when I burn the building down with you still in it."

"Go for it."

Thankfully, he's just reached the threshold of the restaurant. Sliding in, he moves away from the front door quickly. On his way across the small expanse of space separating the entrance from the corridors on either side, he catches a glimpse of her; sitting across from that worthless cad of a mark who has just so happens to have returned.

He tries not to analyse his antagonism towards this particular case, focusing instead on altering his plans, adjusting his approach to account for the changes she so callously forced him to make.

She's smiling at Jon – it's utterly fake, mind you. The grin doesn't nearly reach her eyes.

But she still looks beautiful…

…For a meddling hellion with a tendency to influence his income.

Disappearing around a corner, he manages to trail a waiter and – once the man has his attention sufficiently occupied, he renders him temporarily unconscious. As he strips the man of his uniform, he listens to Jon through the device in his ear, apologising profusely for the unanticipated interruption and commenting on the rudeness of some people. Killian rolls his eyes at that, roughly tugging on the goofy looking waistcoat.

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The look on her face is priceless. Mouth agape as she drinks in his image, standing at their table with a pen and pad, silently preening like a peacock.

When he meets her gaze, he sees the infinitesimal shake of her head.

_Game on_.

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**I don't think you fully understand how much motivation to write I source from reviews?**


	9. Chapter 9

**So, I did not expect everyone to want to know what happened to our good pal Jon after the last little drabble (I was doing that pretentious thing where you leave it up to the readers) _but _since I have had an inundation of lovely people wanting to know what happened: you _will_ find out. _Eventually_. Just not right now.**

**Side note: I've got to say. This is one of my favourite tidbits so far.**

**prompt: sexual tension (kudos anon)**

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_9\. give me all you've got: Emma Swan is stealing his kills and he's had just about enough of it. _

If she didn't aggravate him so much, he might find her somewhat endearing.

But this is not the first time she has stolen his kill and, by extension, his money. In fact, this is the fifth time in three months (not that anyone's counting).

A small voice chides him, tells him he's just bitter because he used to be the best in this macabre game of death. They called him Hook; deadly, sleek, sharp, and near impossible to catch in the murky waters they play in. _And_ a rumour was once spread that he'd taken out a man with a single, well-aimed right hook. Which is completely false, but he wasn't about to deny the notoriety the latent nickname provided nor the subsequent job offers it triggered.

Lord knows his handler, Robert Gold, had been more than pleased by the influx of work.

Now though, now _she_ is the grim reaper. She is not just _in_ his league; she's starting to _beat_ him at his own bloody game.

And she's being a right bitch about it.

Especially since this is the fifth occasion where she's pilfered the lucrative payday from right under his nose without so much as a warning. His lip curls as he thinks about every damn resource she just flushed down the toilet. The senator was alone because _Killian_ had organised it. The senator's guards were preoccupied because _Killian_ had constructed it that way. The senator was unarmed and unprotected because _Killian_ had decreed it so.

But _who_ had taken the kill shot?

_Emma fucking Swan_.

And _who_ had the nerve to send him a text gloating over the kill? His phone feels hot in his hand, clenched tight enough that he's certain it will crumble under his cement grip at any given moment. Thankfully the device is sturdy enough to withstand his piqued ministrations - it is still in one piece even after he throws the damn thing at the wall in his frustration.

(He knew purchasing a Nokia would pay off.)

(Even if it has been a great source of amusement for Swan for _months._)

(The belligerent prig has been informing him on a regular basis just how archaic the technology is - he has always defended it as _sturdy_.)

Killian shakes off the memories as the agitation seizing him rips through his veins like a spectre.

It's the last goddamn straw.

He finds her easily, has Jefferson hack the GPS signal on her phone the second she pulls the trigger and traces her movements from there. So it doesn't surprise him when, taken a little off guard (_a lot _off guard – they've never actively sought each other out before), she tries to incapacitate him as soon as he marches through the door of her hotel room.

A messy scuffle ensues, until he has her pinned against a wall (though she may excel in hand to hand combat, he is still physically stronger and fuelled by vexation). Upon seeing his face, she relaxes - she doesn't view him as a threat. Not with the abundance of chances he's had to kill her in the last six months.

Before she can speak, he growls, "That wasn't very nice what you did today."

Her smirk only goads him and his grip tightens on her wrists, chest crushing her mercilessly against the wall, "Didn't your nonexistent mother ever teach you it's wrong to steal?"

Emma quirks an eyebrow, the thinly-veiled jab rolling right off her shoulders in the shadow of the satisfaction his reaction is so obviously presenting her with.

"How is it stealing when someone practically _offers_ you something?"

He leans forward so their noses brush, his teeth bared.

"You stole my mark."

"I seized an opportunity."

Just then, she uses her body weight and some incomprehensibly complex move to knock him away. He stumbles back and attempts to recapture her. But she is like smoke, slipping through his fingers and choking him in the process, winding him with a harsh blow.

"You don't strike me as an opportunist," he grunts, avoiding a swipe and retaliating by kicking her in the back of the knee so she stumbles, "You're more of a pirate."

"Takes one to know one," she spits, knocking his feet from under him with a low roundhouse.

Several minutes pass like that; lunging, rolling, pulling, pushing - they rip through the room like a tornado. Distantly, he feels satisfied by the mayhem they leave in their wake. Lamps overturned, frames askew or altogether smashed, side tables cleared so that a perimeter of small goods lines the carpet.

Eventually, he is forced to resort to brute strength, swinging her over his shoulders and slamming her into the carpet floor. He leaves no time to let her recover from the no doubt winding move, straddling her hips and locking her arms either side of her. An unwise man would soften the blow, fear for her safety as a delicate young thing, fall prey to the muted look of discomfort on her face when they are finally immobile. But he isn't stupid enough to underestimate her capabilities (he's seen her take down men twice her size with half the effort). He leans close so she cannot interlock her legs around his neck and pull him back - putting them in dangerously close proximity.

Her breath comes out against his lips in short, sharp pants. It shoots warmth straight to his groin to have her wriggling beneath him, searching for an out. They both know it's fruitless, but the only thing in this room bigger than his current level of aggravation is her pride.

Stubborn as an Ox, she is. Perhaps that's why he likes her so much.

Glaring up at him, her lips twitch back in a snarl, "Why are you even here? What do you want? The _money_?"

"I've got enough money."

"Then what the _fuck_ are you doing here?"

"I came here," he murmurs, letting his head drop forward so that his lips brush her ear lobe, "to _warn_ you."

Her breath hitches, his chest tightens.

"_Warn_ me?"

"That if you keep stealing from me, I'm going to take. You. _Out_." He enunciates clearly, biting off each word in a way that sounds suggestive even to his own ears. He doesn't mean for it to come out like an innuendo, but his mouth has a way of unwittingly curling out sounds just this side of debaucherous.

For her part, she doesn't recoil.

That alone has the power to render him speechless. Thankfully, his face is still buried in the space above her shoulder so she doesn't see his stupefied reaction. He schools it before she can notice.

"Is that a threat?" she practically purrs, holding his gaze when he eventually pulls back just enough to safely side-eye her.

Killian grins, a dark menacing thing meant for moon-drenched alleys and shadow-shrouded offices.

"Perhaps it is."

Emma smirks lasciviously.

"You and I both know you'd never kill me."

And maybe she's right. Maybe his heart lurches at the simple idea of her demise. Maybe (through some miracle) he's grown fond of this uncontainable enigma of a woman. Maybe he kind of likes having her around (only kind of).

She doesn't need to know that though.

The space between them is diminishing. She isn't avoiding him and she certainly isn't turning away. His lips brush hers when he whispers.

"_Try me_."

Their eyes lock, the intensity crackling loudly between them. He has an overwhelming urge to kiss her, his fingers _itching_ to travel down her arms to her waist, skim lazily down her lower back, slide under the tank top she's wearing and press into the smooth skin that awaits. His self-control is a fragile thing and it's waning horrendously at this moment.

Which is precisely why he needs to get away from her.

Now.

_Right now._

Before he does something incomprehensibly stupid.

(Like kiss her.)

The tension cracks like a whip as he abruptly jerks away, disentangling himself and sweeping out of the room before he acts on the heat thrumming in his blood. He moves from the room so swiftly, he doesn't see her heavy exhale or expression of muted disappointment and confusion. It's a blessing in disguise though. He really _doesn't _need anymore motivation when it comes to her.

He's playing with fire, he knows it. But for her, he will happily burn.

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**Review in the hopes of that sexual tension spilling over?**


	10. Chapter 10

**To those of you clambering for a hasty fuck: patience is a virtue. And really, did you think you would get off that easily?**

**(Plus, I'm a glutton for punishment - which translates to more sexual tension) **

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_10\. all's fair in death and war: Killian is a firm believer in recompense, stealing her mark only seems fair._

"I hate you."

He is lounging in an armchair, crystal tumbler balanced carefully between nimble fingers, when she sweeps into the room unannounced, the fury practically radiating off of her in waves of unmitigated heat. But then, he expected her to seek him out from the second he plunged his knife into the ambassador's plump chest. Even if he hadn't heard her profuse swearing through his comms, he would have just _known. _Emma Swan is possessive at best, and when it comes to kills that she's been working on for days: she's practically obsessive.

"I hate you so much," she repeats acrimoniously.

If he grins victoriously at the knife-edge of her vowels, it's completely out of his control.

"You son of a bitch," she snarls, "You motherfucking _cheat_ –"

Emma slaps the glass out of his hand in her rampage so it smashes against the floor, glass debris scattering across the wooden panels. With her free hand she reaches roughly for his head – he stops her before she can make contact. She responds by trying to attack him with her other arm. He deflects. It continues like that for some time, brawling, moves and countermoves, until they are a tangled mess of limbs sitting in the too small armchair, hopelessly intertwined, in closer proximity than they have been since he last threatened her.

At least this time, they haven't done any serious damage to the room.

She is straddled atop him, and he can't say he despairs at the welcome feeling of her hips flush with his. Even the glare fixed upon her face is indubitably appealing. He has always had a thing for fire, and this woman is a goddamn inferno.

"Turnabout's fair play, love," he simpers, glancing at her mouth, licking his lips like a cat who caught the mouse.

"The pay on that job was _very_ different and you barely had to make a fucking effort on the senator –"

"Please refrain from swearing so much. It's really not becoming on a pillar of morality and feminine fragility such as yourself."

He says it deliberately – to rile her up.

He succeeds.

Rage glitters in her eyes, wordlessly vowing redemption for his commentary. It promises him a world of agonising pain. He thinks maybe he's a masochist because he's eager for her to deliver on the silent threat.

"Fuck you," Emma growls.

Killian leans even closer to her face, using his grip on her back to pull them closer together so her chest aligns perfectly with his, unintentionally rocking their hips together.

"You know you're always welcome to."

Her eyes flit down to his lips for the shortest of seconds, jaw dropping in barely concealed stupor before she scowls vehemently. Probably in an effort to disguise her momentary lack in judgement. Triumph blooms pleasantly in his chest.

"You're disgusting," she spits.

He flourishes his hand, "And yet, here you are."

Bracing two hands on his chest, she wrenches herself violently away from him and stands up. Hands balanced on her hips, eyes bearing down on him, mouth twisted in anger; she _should_ be intimidating. The thinly veiled awe in his features is clearly not the reaction she is looking for because she kicks out the dainty leg of the armchair so he stumbles forward off it, landing on his knees in front of her.

Yet again, he can't find it in himself to be angry.

Kneeling before her is merely a far better vantage point from which to observe her. And yes, there is a spot reserved in hell for him and his lecherous mind. But really, he thinks, could anyone blame him for staring when she's standing there with the ceiling light haloing her head like an avenging angel?

She glowers and shakes her head.

"I put a lot of thought into this one, ass hole."

Killian chuckles, "I'm sure you did, love, but I don't give a damn."

Emma narrows her eyes and moves to kick him in the stomach. It's a rookie move, a testament to her vexation, and one he catches easily, holding her leg and twisting so she tumbles down in front of him. As she lands with a thump, only one thought dredges itself out of the depths of his swamp of a mind: _if looks could kill_.

So of course she physicalizes it, grabbing a piece of the broken glass to her right and lunging at him.

It is a move reminiscent to the one she used on that Korean twit, Jon, when everything had gone to shit. They'd spent the entire bloody evening sabotaging each other's subtle attempts to kill the bastard: he spilled the glass of wine containing her poison, she convinced Jon _not _to eat the cyanide-laced salad Killian had served up.

In the end, she had practically dragged Jon out onto the roof under the guise of wanting to see the view. Naturally, Killian had followed and a three-way fight had ensued (after he dispatched of the guards).

Emma wanted to kill Jon. Jon wanted to escape. Killian wanted to stop Emma from killing Jon so he could kill the stout man himself. In retrospect, it was a hilarious sight to have beheld: two assassins shoving each other out of the way like petulant toddlers in the sandbox as they each scrambled to end the miserable sod's life. In reality, it probably looked quite intense. But for two people who were well acquainted with the ways of hand-to-hand combat, it was child's play.

In the end, she'd managed to stick him with a broken glass bottle before Killian could kick her legs out from beneath her. And he'd pretty much _wasted _a perfectly functional explosive device.

He is brought back to the present when, in his distraction, Emma shallowly cuts his hand but otherwise misses its mark. He dodges her subsequent swipe just barely and tuts at her.

Securing her arm, he presses two fingers to the hollow of her throat and pushes, forcing her back.

He's always firmly believed she has an unfair advantage with those long lean limbs, something that occurs to him yet again as she enlists those pesky legs of hers. He drops to the floor like a leaden weight, his sense of equilibrium vanishing so swiftly that his head misses the pile of broken glass by a slender inch. Throwing away her makeshift weapon, she scrambles on top of him.

There's a definitively satisfying edge to the sensation of her weight pinning him down.

Especially when they're both still breathing heavily and her eyes are burning with an untampered ferocity he's come to admire.

Emma tilts closer, "You're a prick."

He leans up as much as he can so his nose nudges at hers, "And you're a bitch. We're just _meant_ to be."

Again, her eyes dart to his lips for a split second and he thinks she might kiss him the longer they linger there. Except she doesn't, she meets his gaze, daggers him with it, and pulls up. Kicking him once in the side (_lightly_ compared to her usual dealings – he's seen her break bones with those damned boots), she strides from the room in a whirlwind, leaving him a heaving and wheezing mess on the floor.

Even through the pain blossoming in his ribs, he feels no regret. Or animosity for that matter.

In their line of work, violence isn't exactly uncommon. Nor is it a symbol of hatred, just business. They deal in blood and sweat and broken bones. It's a socially acceptable currency of sorts.

If anything, beating each other up is a sign of affection and trust. Because she's clearly not afraid he'll feel personally victimised over the fact that she lunged at him with a jagged strip of broken glass. Just as she doesn't take it to heart when he (rarely) manages to kick her ass.

They've got a good thing going.

(All good things must come to an end.)

(He's too busy thinking about the way his skin is still tingling to ponder that.)

* * *

**Review in the hopes of that sexual tension spilling over?**


	11. Chapter 11

**Happy Valentine's Day!**

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_11\. never deal with the devil: Killian breaks the golden rule._

It is, to say the least, an absolute shitstorm.

He's not even in the goddamn thick of it but he can see that her skin is coated in a thick mixture of blood and sweat and ash, debris caught in her gold hair. Her eyes are bloodshot, no doubt stinging with the dirt and dust that hangs in the air. Prague is usually nice this time of year, but trying to kill someone can bring out the worst in a country. Especially when that person possesses enough to wealth to hire out a whole convoy for travelling purposes.

Crouched behind an SUV with blown out tyres, Emma visibly swallows and pivots on her foot, rising up from the makeshift shelter and unloading a packet of bullets. With no shortage of pride, he watches several men fall as a result. The target, unfortunately for her, is not among those bodies now strewn across the road. That man is tucked comfortably away behind his paid protection.

Even Killian, from his vantage point several hundred feet away, cannot get a clean shot just yet.

As clear as day, he hears her curse.

Jefferson must have finally hacked her comms. The soundtrack where she stands is thunderous and grossly out of time, the clicking of ammo packets coming several seconds after she has reloaded her gun only to empty it in another collection of men. It should put him off, to hear the cacophony of her world while he's trying to line up his crosshairs with the precision of a needle and thread. But it doesn't; he's trained for these situations. He's actually trained for much more difficult scenarios.

"Emma," he tests as she crouches behind the car again.

In his crosshairs, he sees her jolt at the sound of his voice.

"Did you hack my comms again?" she demands irately, still reloading with all the efficiency of a well-trained soldier.

"_Obviously_," he says, perusing her general vicinity as he answers, "You're ridiculously outmanned down there, love, stop wasting your ammo."

Emma rolls her eyes (she does that a lot in his company) and shakes her head, "So what's your suggestion?"

"Stay down."

"So you can take the kill?" She barks a mirthless laugh, "I think I'll pass."

A heavy sigh, and then he's aiming for the guards closest to her.

"You're going to get yourself killed," he mutters under his breath. His bullets hit their mark and he smirks, satisfied. The blood pumps and hums happily in his veins at the reverberation of the gun beneath his deft fingers as it fires once, twice, three times, rumbling and jolting through his entire body. Returning his attention to their target, he grins when he sees that the guards have dispersed enough to provide a rapidly closing window of opportunity.

"And this one is mine anyway."

In his mind's eye, he can just see the way her gaze widens in realisation as she growls, "Don't you fucking dare. I set this bitch up -"

There's a resounding boom across the deserted street, and then the target drops in a lifeless heap, a bullet lodged in his brain. Killian instantly pulls his sights back around to where Emma stands behind her vehicle.

Her gun bounces off the ground when she throws it in frustration, glaring in his general direction.

"Lucky shot," she hisses, striding across to the SUV that still works and wrenching open the door. The snicker that escapes his mouth is completely unintentional and she glares murderously to no one in particular (he knows it's directed at him). Lifting her middle finger in the air (_all for him_) she rips the comms from her ear and stuffs them in her pocket.

It only makes him grin wider.

Her petulance always has a way of warming something inside of him.

His amusement evaporates as she leans into the still-operational vehicle, head ducking behind the wheel as she tries to hot-wire it. Compromised and unaware, her back is completely exposed to the stumbling bodyguard approaching her from behind, handgun clutched desperately in one blood soaked hand.

He cannot warn her, the comms are resting comfortably in her pocket. And she's too consumed by her aggravation to pick up on the silent footsteps of her impending aggressor.

Killian buries a round in the injured bodyguard before he can even lift the weapon in her direction. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't think about it – just moves with the unerring swiftness of a jungle cat as he takes down her threat. It is different to the time at the hotel when he chose not to abandon her. In that lobby, all that time ago, she still had at least a semblance of a chance: this time her death would have been all but certain.

Not only that, but this time she will know without a doubt that he saved her.

The thick gunshot that rings out is enough to make Emma snap out of the front seat and whip around.

When she turns, she is met with the sight of her would-be attacker falling in a lifeless heap. She stands frozen for a second and Killian takes the transitory moment to catch his breath (he doesn't know when he started breathing heavily). When she rotates to face his general direction, her expression is hard, unreadable. Something has shifted between them, he can feel it from miles away.

She deftly retrieves the comms from her pocket and pulls the microphone roughly to her lips.

"Meet me at Granny's in four hours."

(The quaint coffee shop he passed on the drive up here flashes in his mind's eye).

Unwilling to wait for an answer, she throws the comms device on the ground and jumps into the now-humming vehicle. He watches her as she tears away from the deserted road in a cloud of dust and debris. And he knows he is completely, utterly, totally and royally screwed.

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"What's all this for?"

He stares at the heavy bag on the linoleum table in Granny's, the same one she dumped in front of him only seconds earlier.

"I don't like unpaid debts. This is for saving my life," she responds coldly. His eyes widen when he hesitantly pulls back the zipper to reveal several large wads of cash.

His eyes dart up to meet hers. She is still covered in ash and blood and the few people scattered around the establishment are staring.

"And this is how much you think your life is worth?" he asks, incredulity woven carefully into his tone. She picks up on it, the recognition making her eyes twitch and narrow.

Emma nods curtly.

He surveys the money once more before sliding the bag back in her direction and shaking his head.

"I didn't save your life so you could pay me."

"Well I'm sure as fuck not sleeping with you as gratitude, so what do you want?"

He grins lasciviously but otherwise considers her question with idle curiosity. While the idea of sleeping with Emma definitely has crossed his mind once or twice (or perhaps _several _times), it would be bad form to extort it out if her. Besides, he wants that particular occasion to be a conscious decision on her part: not some convoluted symbol of gratitude.

Eventually, he shrugs and stands from the cafe booth.

"I don't want anything."

But Emma catches his elbow, her iron grip firm enough that it holds him in place. He looks up to meet her stormy gaze. She drops her hand immediately and glares, "I don't like unfinished business."

Killian shrugs.

"Maybe I'm just a philanthropist."

"If that's true, you're in the wrong line of work."

"Perhaps I am."

He notes the stubborn set to her jaw as she holds his gaze. He also notes the feint desperation there: like this is gnawing at her bones the same way it is gnawing at his. Though certainly for different reasons. Things are different now, and she clearly doesn't like that. There is a heavy, bone-weary sigh and then he mutters, "_Fine_. I'll take the money."

The bag is looped over his shoulder in one swift movement.

8888

He dumps the money in a trash can outside.

He knows why he saved her.

And it wasn't because he wanted something from her.

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**You know there's always that defining moment where things _really _begin to shift in a story? That just there was it.**


	12. Chapter 12

**This might be slightly angstier than what you were all expecting from this prompt. Sorry. The muse wants what it wants.**

**prompt: converging upon the same mark, which Killian also happens to be in the process of seducing (basically, jealous!Emma)**

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_12\. __if I fall short: Emma is avoiding him, so why is she the one who is angry?_

Lazy smirk fixed in place, he leans closer, dipping his eyes to her lips deliberately slow so she can catch the movement. Her gaze is burning into him with the precision of a laser, green eyes distantly assessing, even as he works his well-honed charms - playing on the dormant lust in her system with a practiced ease.

This is what he knows.

This is what he's best at.

The game of seduction has always been his greatest strength.

And, watching as the haze of attraction slackens her jaw, softening her features, he feels a mix of success and disappointment. Because he's got her trapped in his orbit, hopelessly endeared to the pleasure he's wordlessly promising.

But her eyes are the wrong shade of green and her hair is a darker blonde and her face is pinched with plastic surgery.

(She's not _Emma_, a small voice whispers in his head.)

(He promptly tells that voice to be quiet with the aid of several unmentionable profanities.)

He can't quite place the root of his disenchantment. Even if he doesn't outwardly show it, it digs into his chest to leave a deep crevasse. One that he cannot fill, regardless of the drink he imbibes and the women he takes to bed. The minx has wheedled her way into his very being, ingrained herself in his soul.

He tells himself it's just because he's curious. It's not often he finds himself being rebuffed by women (or men, for that matter).

Let alone _ignored_.

It is unparalleled – an unprecedented reaction to his person.

Which is exactly what she's been doing for the past three weeks: ignoring him. He knows she hasn't just miraculously disappeared - he's had Jefferson keeping tabs on her. That voice momentarily pipes up again, whispering words like 'concern' but he dismisses it with unnecessary vigor.

Ever since he saved her life, she's been avoiding him like the plague and she must have upgraded her comms because they've been nigh impossible to hack. He doesn't really want to ask why saving her life was such an issue. After all, he knows the answer.

It means he cares.

And caring only gets you killed.

He convinces himself he doesn't _really_ care.

He reminds himself every day that he never cared.

(He knows he is, in fact, a big fat fucking liar.)

The woman in front of him (his mark: Madame Franco) jolts him back to the present when her fingers begin to drift down the sides of his waist. Her acrylic nails are too sharp against his skin, but he hides his wince well with a feral grin she mistakes for lust.

"So," she purrs, wafting closer to him with hooded eyes, "Where do you suppose we do this?"

There's a bitter taste in his mouth. He assuages his barely concealed disdain with the self-decreed reassurance that this woman will be dead long before she can lay her greedy hands on him. But he needs her completely alone first - and that's never going to happen in a nightclub like this.

So he smirks and suggests the hotel next door.

She agrees and they leave swiftly thereafter. It's only as they are exiting the brightly lit bar that he swears he sees a flash of unmistakable gold hair.

For the umpteenth time, he assures himself it's not her. Even if his gut churns in unmistakable recognition.

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Madame Franco decides she cannot wait until they reach the hotel room to touch him, pressing herself against the length of him the moment they are left alone in the elevator. He groans inwardly, because he can do nothing but play along with the surveillance cameras glaring down at him. So he kisses her back when she closes the distance between them, trying and failing spectacularly to lose himself in this woman he will kill before the night has ended.

His reprieve comes in the form of the elevator doors opening on their room's floor and he disengages under the guise of eagerness. Well, it's not really a guise - he _is _eager. To stick a knife in her throat and be done with it.

She sways past him as they find themselves at the door, trying for sultry and coming up empty. Mercifully, it only takes one try for the door to click open. Of course, Madame Franco turns to kiss him roughly before she shoves the door back by kicking it. Her fingers are cinched in his hair, uncomfortably tight, as she drags him through the corridor to where the bedroom awaits.

A breeze pushes her dirty blonde hair into his face just so and he stiffens.

Hotels don't leave windows open.

And he's never subscribed to coincidence.

Madame Franco notices his rigidity and pulls away, tilting her head to the side in question.

He spots Emma just before she shoots, a strange look on her flushed face.

The woman with smudged lipstick grunts at the impact of the bullet, eyes blown wide as she falls forward, a deed red spot blooming between her shoulder blades. Emma's arm is still raised and he turns to face her, wiping the lipstick from his mouth roughly with the back of his hand. She notices the gesture and drops the weapon, unscrewing the silencer with an unnecessary amount of force.

"So you _are _alive," he cracks, swaggering forward. She catches the unmistakable bite in his tone and narrows her eyes as she tucks away her gun.

"Stunning observation, ass hole. You seem to be alive and well too. Can't say the same for your _friend _here," she returns caustically, glaring at the dead body lying across the carpeted floor.

"Don't be jealous, sweetheart," he jibes, baring his teeth.

Emma's previously averted gaze snaps up to meet his, muted recognition appearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye before she scoffs and dismisses the claim. But he catches the glimmer of emotion, and he stares at her - agitation waning as he tries to piece together her motivations.

He was only joking…

Surely, she wasn't _actually _jealous?

For some reason, he feels the need to explain himself.

"Swan… You don't actually think I wanted to…" he begins, trying to catch her gaze.

She is not fazed though, continuing with her relentless clean-up - wiping down the gun, depositing it in the tight black holster on her thigh.

"And you couldn't have gotten her alone in an _alley _or _the ladies room_ or her _fucking car,_" she spits sarcastically, staring at her hands as she meanders around.

"You've done the research too, love. You and I both know Franco was too kitschy to let me lure her somewhere dark and dingy. And besides, I don't – I mean - I wasn't planning on _actually _-"

"Why do you think I care?" is her barbed interruption, acrimony hiding the barely discernible veins of jealousy weaving in and out of her voice.

"You can do what you want with whoever you want. I just wanted the kill," she adds dismissively. It's a lie, and the full force of that smacks him upside the head with stunning force. Enough to stun him for a second. When he shakes it off, her gear is tucked away and she's heading for the window where a series of thick ropes are awaiting her attention.

Killian stalks her across the room, "You were in the club, weren't you? I saw you there."

"So what if I was?" Emma whirs on her heel to face him, jade eyes dark with anger and frustration and fear and maybe the tiniest hint of jealousy, "Doesn't change a damn thing. I was just keeping an eye on the target. Waiting for her to isolate herself - thankfully, _you_ did that for me. That's that. She's dead. I'm leaving to collect my pay."

If she thought she could pull _that_ lie over his head, she's kidding herself.

Killian snatches the ropes she's binding around her midsection away, holding them at arms length when she tries to grab them back.

"Why have you been avoiding me?"

He needs to hear the answer. And it's one she's just not willing to give. She kicks him behind the knee and wrangles the ropes from his hand as he stumbles on the spot, securing herself and stepping up to the ledge.

"I'm not avoiding you."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Whatever."

She moves to jump and he jaunts forward, catching her elbow and yanking her away. She's not getting away that easily - not when he's been unable to find her for weeks. He wants an explanation - the need for it is simmering in his blood, an inveterate ache in the very marrow of his bones.

"No. Tell me why," he demands.

Emma tries to wrench her arm from his grip again and stumbles, almost falling over the edge at an awkward (potentially fatal) angle. Except Killian manages to snake an arm around her waist, steadying her against his torso to keep her from toppling over. The only problem, of course, is that it puts them in dangerously close proximity.

Her gaze burns into him, breath fluttering across his face as she grips his upper arms for support. That he doesn't pull away tells him enough about her effect on him; the feeling of her pressed against him from hip to shoulder near intoxicating.

"I don't answer to you," she hisses, "Now, let me go or I'll shoot you like I did in Colorado. Only this time, I won't _miss._"

The connotation that she'd been aiming to kill that time knocks the wind out of him.

His shoulder prickles, the small puckered scar tingling to life, and his face turns to ice. With cold eyes and stiff movements, he removes his arms and takes several long steps back. Their gazes never jump, locked in place. Even as she resumes her place at the precipice, swallowing thickly before jumping down, down, down.

He cannot help himself. He shuffles towards the edge to see if she landed okay. She did. And she throws one last glance up in his direction before sprinting down the dark street.

(She bites down on the bitter anger and jealousy swelling in her gut as she makes her way back to her safehouse.)

(She _doesn't_ care.)

(She hates that she knows she's lying to herself.)

* * *

**Well, you got a tiny snippet of Emma's POV. So, there's that.**

**Reviews are wishes for Emma to put aside the shit and just accept her feelings?**


	13. Chapter 13

**Because they had to make up eventually.**

**And profuse apologies for the long wait (that pesky little thing called life got in the way)**

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_13\. __we belong far down below: Killian is in a sticky situation._

They say you can tell a lot about a person by what torture methods they use. Or something like that (the real idiom is far less fascinating, if you ask him).

If Killian had to comment on the lanky motherfucker electrocuting him right now, he's got to assume its some form of overcompensation. Why else would the bastard be trying to turn him into a human potato crisp when all he did was calmly instruct him, in his native language, to eat shit and die?

Bloody oversensitive prick.

As the electric current finally ceases its agonizing path through his damp body, Killian's head falls forward, chin against sweat-soaked chest. He's breathing heavily; he can feel his heart beating a staccato against his ribs, threatening to erupt from the fragile cage of bones and onto the floor. With trembling limbs, he forces his head up.

Even if he hadn't, the bald man with his finger on the switch would have – his bony fingers dig into Killian's chin and tilt his head further back. With muddled thoughts, Killian recalls that his name is something like Letchovitch, and he is his mark's right-hand man. Which is how he got into this mess in the first place.

He needed information on his mark, a one: Mr Carlos Loretti.

How he came to be in the chair, he cannot honestly recall the details. By now, it's all just a hazy slur of blurry images - jumping (recklessly) into the fray, fighting with abandon, trying to lose himself in the methodical dance of combat (anything to avoid the residual hollow feeling that has taken root deep in the recesses of his chest). He vaguely recalls a sloppy manoeuvre, pain rocketing from the back of his head, blackness…

And then he woke up in a chair. And there were wires.

And pain.

A whole fucking lot of it.

He is drawn from his reverie when the man's grip tightens painfully on his jaw.

"Who sent you?" Letchovitch asks, his accent thick enough that the words are almost unintelligible.

"_Please_," he pants pathetically, "speak your own language because you fucking suck at mine." He grins in spite of his stinging muscles and sweat-slick brow. Anything to aggravate the locals.

"Fool."

His aggressor rips his fingers away, leaving shallow scratches – only to ball that same hand and knock him in the jaw. White lights appear behind Killian's lids for a moment as he closes his eyes and spits out the blood in his mouth. His eyes are blurry when he turns back to see the man wetting his cloth.

Killian groans under his breath. Already tensing his grip on the chair.

Gods, if only the man would let up he might have a chance to escape these rudimentary binds. But he can't do it in full sight of his captor, not without getting caught. And subsequently shot.

The man returns and douses him with water, enough that he has to tilt his head down and spit to avoid choking.

Which is precisely when he hears a gunshot, several rather loud gunshots actually. Letchovitch retrieves a knife and instantly jumps to stand behind Killian, pressing the blade precariously to his neck and watching the door.

It bursts open and, standing there, is Emma.

He doesn't really know how to feel about it. Ever since the incident in Prague, she's been avoiding him. They have only crossed paths once in the wake of what he has affectionately dubbed the 'ridiculous-overreaction-to-saving-her-life' escapade. Back in Paris, when he was seducing Madame Franco in order to take her out. Her thinly-veiled indignation haunts him; the unmistakable ice in her tone as she jumped from the balcony.

He's always known she has walls.

But damn, if it doesn't hurt all the same.

"Marco Letchovitch, I've been looking all over for you," Emma sing-songs in a seamless impersonation of the man's native tongue, striding into the room with her weapon held high. He sees her spare him a look, sees the way her eyes darken as she takes in his disheveled appearance. She gestures offhandedly to Killian, "Why don't you let that one go and we can go a couple rounds, hm? You can tell me where your boss Loretti is?"

Instead, Letchovitch tightens his grip on Killian's hair, "Go to hell, bitch."

The knife digs harder into the fragile skin of his neck and he moans a little as he prepares for it to be drawn in a narrow virgule across lifeline, severing the thread of his existence in one quick swipe. But the fatal blow never comes and when he opens his eyes (he isn't quite sure when he closed them), he sees Emma's gun is raised just a little higher and there's a high-pitched ringing in his ears.

Tilting his head just so, he can see Letchovitch's body behind him – a bullet right between his shock-widened eyes.

Relief washes through Killian in a cold wave. But also surprise, because that was their only direct line to Loretti and the only chance they would have had to reach the arms dealer in a viable time frame.

Soft, warm fingers brush the ravaged skin of his wrists and he looks down to find Emma crouching in front of him. She keeps her eyes on her task, ridding him of his rope shackles and disconnecting wires until he slumps forward in the chair. He watches her all the while, studying the delicate curve of her brow as she works to release him.

When she does, and he almost falls, she catches him with a firm, "Hey, hey, hey. Come on, ass hole. I didn't shoot that dick-bag for nothing."

The exhaustion is catching up with him and he frowns groggily at her as she lifts him into a standing position, taking on most of his weight as she draws one of his arms over her shoulders.

"Why did you shoot him?" he asks, "He was the only connection to Loretti."

Emma's lips thin into a line. She doesn't answer, just drags him, stumbling, from the room.

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Later, when he's bandaged and stable and sitting on the edge of her bed (she took him back to her safe-house), he cannot help the bitterness that boils up in him. He hasn't seen her in months now; she could have been dead for all he knew. And the last time he saw her she was a right bitch. And they aren't even really friends. And it's downright _irrational_, but he's angry in a way he's never been before.

Wincing, he tugs a fresh shirt roughly over his head. She is leaning against the opposite wall, observing him. As he shoves his arm through one sleeve, he glances up at her.

"So I guess I should pay you now. Will five thousand do the trick?"

"Shut up, Jones," Emma snaps, just as sharp.

Killian stands and takes a slow, deliberate step in her direction. This time, he doesn't drop her gaze, but holds it steadily, intensely; probing for an answer he needs her to give.

"Why shouldn't I?" he asks, jaw clenching.

She sighs and rubs her forehead, obscuring his view of her face in any way she can: looking away, letting her hair fall forward in a curtain, shrugging to deflect. It's one of her techniques, her way of hiding from things that are too intense or too emotionally compromising. He's learnt her tics the same way she's learnt his. So he knows that what she says is not only the truth, but encompasses a level of sentimental depth she is not familiar or comfortable with.

"Because I know you ditched the cash I gave you… And I didn't save you so you could pay me."

It's as close to an explanation as he'll get.

It's also as close to an apology as he'll get (he hears the tentative undercurrent of '_I'm sorry_' even if he doesn't acknowledge it). He doesn't press her, nodding stiffly in silent acceptance before moving towards the mini-fridge. When he brings them both back a drink and takes a seat on the edge of the chest of drawers, he distinctly hears a sound of disgust as she scoffs under her breath to her auburn bottle, "_Only five thousand_."

It makes him smile.

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**Ta daaaaa**

**Review per favore?**


	14. Chapter 14

**I'm always so stunned when you guys react so positively like thank you muchly, cannot compute such kindnessm wow.**

**I hope you all find some money walking down the street today because you're all fantastic (and that you like this chapter).**

**prompt: could our bbys please work _together_ on something? please?**

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_14\. __cover your losses: Killian and Emma are forced to work together to get out of a bit of a conundrum._

It doesn't surprise him anymore when their paths cross on jobs. After all, there are only so many people in the world with prices on their heads.

Scratch that. There are only so many people in the world with unscrupulous enemies willing to generously fund their foes' early demise. Technically, there are lots of people with prices on their heads (you'd be surprised), just not a lot of people with generous benefactors. And if it doesn't pay, it's not worth the effort.

Either way, it would be difficult not to be running the same jobs in a career like theirs.

Granted, it's slowly becoming less about the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and more about the chase, the thrill of racing her to pull the trigger, competing against someone infinitely worthy of his time just to make the kill. Their entire relationship is a blood sport.

It's pretty fucked up, he'll admit that.

But when he gets to smirk down at her, all smug eyes and twitching lips as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet like a kid in a bloody candy store, he can't find it in him to care. Especially when she punches him in the chest and saunters off, muttering something about _next time_ and _luck_ and _such an ass_.

To be quite frank, he doesn't even care when he loses nowadays. He'll happily have his money pilfered by Swan. The grin on her face and the arch of her eyebrow when they stand panting, face-to-face amidst a pile of bodies is well worth the eroded weaponry and older technology.

His handler, Gold, isn't happy about it. Every kill lost is a dollar that falls out of his meticulously tailored pocket.

Killian used to be the big ticket. Now he's just a regular income (and God forbid Gold have to worry about how he's going to finance his next yacht).

Killian internally rolls his eyes just thinking about it. He can't really spare the effort or focus for long though, not when he's sprinting away from rapid gunfire.

Emma, unsurprisingly, is in front of him. She's a lot faster - even in those damned heeled boots of hers.

He had managed to snag the mark's lover, ordering her at knifepoint to lead the way to Miss Ivakov's room. After a short walk, he'd opened the door just in time to see Emma snap the target's neck. As the woman fell limp, he'd cursed profusely (he distinctly remembers Emma's uninhibited laughter at his petulance). The target's lover, however, had screamed. Loudly. Enough to draw attention before he could render her unconscious.

And now they're running from the less than pleased mafia cronies that worked for Miss Dana Ivakov. The Russians, it seems, are vindictive bastards when they want to be.

They chase them down, spraying bullets across the street.

But they can't run forever. And eventually, they find a suitable cover, drawing their weapons in the same breath as they pivot.

They shoot until the Russians stop advancing, outsourcing their own cover from the surrounding cars. Thankfully, the street is now deserted. Innocent casualties, though not a technical or financial concern to mercenaries, are not necessary and it is one of the few areas of common ground he shares with Emma. Their meal tickets aren't worth sacrificing the innocent. Ever.

So there is a sliver of relief when he notes the distinct lack of civilians getting caught in his crosshairs.

As their gunshots ring through the air, he leans towards her and yells, "Cover me, I'm going to take that vantage point," as he points to the opposite side of the street.

She doesn't question him, just nods, "Go now."

He doesn't need further encouragement, swallowing his natural response to flee. Instead, he sprints headlong, exposed, across the empty street as Emma shoots their assailant's into submission.

The thing about ammo, though, is that it runs out. Which is exactly what hers does with two metres to go.

"I'm out," she shouts, warning him of the impending hellfire as she reloads another packet.

(There's a hint of panic hidden in her tone that he stocks away for later consideration.)

(Right now, he's got more important things to focus on.)

(Like not getting shot.)

A bullet grazes his calf and his shoulder, but he leaps forward relatively unscathed and rolls along the asphalt behind the cement blockade. That's definitely going to leave road rash, he thinks with a wince. He assesses his calf and then his shoulder, giving himself a positive diagnosis: he'll be fine, if a little scratched up. It wouldn't be the first time he's accrued minor injuries on a bad exit plan.

"I'm good," he calls back, for no particular reason other than to assure her he's alright. Why it matters that she is aware of his condition, neither wants to ponder. But it matters. It just does.

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He returns the favour not long later, occupying the Russians as she reloads and aims for the fuel tanks of the vehicles the bastards are using as shelter.

The first one explodes after two shots, rising off the ground and taking at least six of the mafia with it. There's about four cronies left and they're ducking away from the remaining car - smart bastards.

"Jones," Emma catches his attention and he ducks down to avoid being shot in the head. He turns to her as she throws her gun down on the ground, wordlessly telling him she's got no ammo left.

Checking his own supply, he notices the abundance of empty space. His gun has six shots left.

"Fuck."

"Come out, American scum, and we'll shoot you quick!" One of the impassioned Russians cries in a heavily accented attempt at English.

Killian rolls his eyes at the same time Emma does.

They're both staring at each other across the road, silently communicating.

_'What now?'_

_'I'll distract, you run. I'll catch up.'_

_'Fuck that.'_

_'Then what do you suggest, love?'_

_'I'll distract. You run.'_

_'Not bloody likely.'_

_'You got a better plan?'_

_'Actually, I do._'

Without preamble, Killian jumps up and sprints across to her, all but landing on her as he propels himself forward. The bullets echo on the pavement in his wake.

"What the fuck was _that_?" she hisses from under him, shoving at his shoulders. She wriggles angrily beneath him and he has to reign in the lecherous thoughts that automatically appear in his sewer-laden mind. Delicately, and with a great deal of pain because road rash is a bitch, he slides off of her and props himself up.

"Getting them to waste bullets."

Emma's face deadpans, "If they'd shot you it wouldn't have been a waste of bullets."

"Yeah, but they didn't. And we can beat them in hand to hand - which they won't do until they're out of options."

Though certainly not convinced, she does appear slightly impressed.

"I'll go next."

Emma's up and running across the space before he can say another word. But he can't _not_ cover her, not when he's still got rounds.

So he fires two shots, enough to affect their aim so she lunges towards the barricade untouched.

By some stroke of luck, it only takes two more runners for the Russians' guns to click ineffectively. Their gravelly voices carry in the eerie quiet, swearing angrily.

Killian catches Emma's gaze.

Now or never.

They jump up at the same time, flying towards the four remaining men.

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Somehow, they find themselves fighting back-to-back, encircled by the Russians with heavy tongues and heavier paws. Combat has always given him a rush - this time, though, the overwhelming sensation is stronger. So assiduous that his grin is dark and feral with satisfaction, even with a split lip and bruised jaw.

Perhaps, he contemplates, perhaps it's because he has someone at his back. Someone covering him.

She could, technically, slip out of here at any moment.

She's a fast runner and he has firsthand experience with how wily she can be. Yet she stays and fights, occasionally dragging him around to swap positions with her, throwing her arm out to block one of his aggressor's jabs, verbally warning him of oncoming strikes ("On your right!" "Duck!" "On your left, Jones!").

There's something more than violence brewing in the afternoon sun. Something like camaraderie, especially when he does the exact same things for her ("Watch your 9!" "Right side!" "Get down!").

Eventually, the four Russians fall.

Breathless, they turn to each other.

Covered in blood, sweat, and dirt – and beyond exhausted, they merely look at each other for several seconds. He wonders if she's cataloguing his injuries the same way he is internally recording hers.

When their eyes meet again, he cannot tamper down his smirk of satisfaction.

"I hate to tell you, love, but it seems we make quite the team."

Emma snorts, but there's definitely an upward swing to her lips when she strolls leisurely away as though they haven't just escaped the clutches of a dead mob boss.

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**Y'all are going to like what follows this (and no, not in a dirty way you bunch of perverts) (_that_ comes later) (way later after some angst and sexual tension)**


	15. Chapter 15

**I do so cherish you all and your reviews. Even though I seem to be torturing some of you (I would apologise but it is deliberate so it would be a bit of an empty condolence, don't you think?)**

**This is one of my favourites so far. Enjoy the development!**

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_15\. __you're just human: Through some miracle, Killian coaxes Emma into sharing a drink – and her innermost thoughts._

"Have a drink with me."

She cocks an incredulous eyebrow, giving him her typecast questioning-his-sanity look. They are both standing at the bar of some local inn, leaning on it for support as the post-assassination adrenaline wanes. And, though she's tired, she's also curious.

"Why?"

He shrugs, beckons the bartender over and orders two glasses of whiskey. The young man disappears to pour their beverages and he returns his attention to Emma who looks aggressively skeptical.

"Because we're in one of the most beautiful places on the planet and we've done our respective jobs," he answers smoothly.

She levels him with a probing gaze.

"_So_?"

With a heavy sigh, he frowns. It could just be that he's exhausted beyond all comprehendible measure but frustration bubbles up under his skin without warning. All he wants is for her to, just once, let her guard down. Let him in. Lower her walls just an inch. They've known each other long enough - saved each other's asses enough times.

In the back of his mind, he knows it's a bad idea. He also knows it's unfair to ask that of her. That doesn't stop him though. He is, after all, a bastard.

Leaning closer to her, he tells her, just on this side of exasperation, "Swan, for once in your life would you just trust me? Bloody hell woman, you'd think I just asked you for your firstborn."

And for some reason, as the drinks arrive and she registers his words, she snatches her glass and takes a big gulp, wincing at the burn before she responds.

"I never plan on having kids so that would be a moot scenario."

Killian is midway through lifting his drink to his lips when she says it. He catches the glimmer of anguish in her eyes, the hint of something from her infamous past.

He pauses, staring her down, "...Never?"

Emma shakes her head blankly. Ghosts haunt the crevices that burrow into the iridescent depths of her irises, woven between the intricate strings of colour that stretch out from her pupil.

"_Never_."

He blows out a heavy breath, whistling low in apparent surprise. Really though, a woman like Swan was never going to be open to the idea of a family. Not with her emotional damage. Even if he's seen her stare longingly at families they've had to pass by on their way to targets' estates and apartments.

She thinks he hasn't noticed.

She should know by now that he has a keen sense for her (a terrifying ability to read her that scares him as much as it surely scares her).

As though hearing his thoughts, she adds, somewhat defensively, "We make too many enemies to think about settling down. It would be a waiting game – the shoe would eventually drop."

"What if it _didn't_ though?"

Emma stiffens.

"Sorry?"

His eyes drill into her, penetrating and curious and something else he can't even explain. His heart is thundering in his chest for some inexplicable reason - like this moment might be important. Like this conversation might actually bear weight. What a preposterous idea.

"What if you could disappear? Wipe the slate clean?" he poses in a tone that is too serious for such a purely hypothetical conversation.

A minute passes where she studies him. Then she's looking away, taking a long swig of alcohol, shaking her head in dismissal, "That's impossible."

"No it's not."

Emma pulls the bartender aside and orders vodka and two shot glasses. He can already feel her shutting down this discussion. It's hitting too close to home. This is her out.

"If we're talking about this," she says dismissively, "I'm going to need something stronger than watered down whiskey."

Killian cocks an eyebrow.

"Shots?"

Emma merely nods once. Pouring the clear liquid generously across their two glasses. Once filled, she hands one to him and lifts the other towards her lips and swallows it in one gulp.

"We'll take one every time someone makes a correct deduction," she tells him, her voice raw in the after-burn of the fiery liquid.

He takes his shot and curses. Then he smirks, the heat running down to douse his chest in something that not only burns but also spurs him to life.

"Love, I truly hope you can hold your liquor," he warns, taking the bottle from her and pouring another round of libations. He's learned a thing or two about her since they met.

Distantly, he's aware that maybe she knows that too.

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The world around him is hazy, the lights dull and blurred around the edges, the air thicker and heavier than before he started drinking. He traces the ceiling of his hotel room with sluggish eyes, splayed out across the chaise in the center of his room.

His voice comes out slurred.

"How did you happen upon this _wonderful_ career? Born with a gun in your hand?" he asks Emma as she lets herself fall against the end of the plush couch, lying over his legs. There is something about this version of Emma, less abrasive and more open, which he likes.

Of course, he can't really remember how they ended up here. In his hotel room. With more alcohol.

(He winces internally just thinking about how much he's going to regret their inebriation in the morning.)

(Lord knows how much they've imbibed by now.)

When she hums in thought, he is pulled back to the present.

"Nope!" she tells him, popping the 'P' and shifting so she faces him. Her eyelids are heavy and her voice drops in and out sporadically, oscillating between dulcet tones and a high-pitched cadence. "I actually... I fell into it when I was seventeen turning eighteen. I - I was in foster care and this woman _plucked_ me out and made a weapon out of me. Then I met David, my handler, and the rest is history!" She tries to throw her arms in the air to punctuate the end of her story. In the end, it just looks like she's flailing. If he weren't so consumed by the latter part of her revelation, he might be inclined to feel heartened by the former (it's not a common occurrence for Emma to be so open) (Granted, they have had _a lot _to drink).

Then again, he can't really talk. Not when he's just as locked down as she is. That all changes under the influence of alcohol though – he's always been an honest drunk.

"I hate that."

Emma's expression sobers when she sees his scowl. When did he start scowling?

"What do you hate?"

"Being called a weapon," he mutters, picking at the stitching on the leather couch. Her befuddled expression radiates a brand of curiosity far too somber for a drunken person.

"Why?"

Killian sighs and rubs his forehead.

"Because I'm a bloody _person_, you know? I mean… I know I do horrible things – I _kill_ people for a living for fuck's sake… and I'm a bad person and all but I'm not..." He struggles to verbalize for a long moment but she doesn't interrupt. Instead, she stares at him, waiting patiently for him to continue. Finally, after grappling painstakingly with the thoughts swirling incomprehensibly around his mind, he finds the words. "I'm not an _object_. I'm not an emotionless tool – I have… I _feel_. I think..." His voice drifts off and he shakes his head. The next admission that tumbles from his lips comes without warning and vaguely he feels as though he should have stayed silent. "Sometimes I hate myself..."

"Me too."

Killian snaps his head in Emma's direction. She's still staring at him, only now the world doesn't seem so fuzzy. It clarifies for her, so he can see the honesty shining brightly in her gaze.

They are cut from the same cloth.

"I'd wager that's just another side effect of what we do," he says. She raises her eyebrows and looks away.

"Self-loathing?"

He hums in the affirmative. In his periphery, he sees her shake her head and run her fingers loosely through her hair.

"I _must_ be drunk," she breathes.

"What makes you say that?"

"Because this is the first honest conversation I've had in years."

Even in his slightly debilitated state, he can appreciate the weight of that comment. He can also empathize with it.

"Aye. Me too."

A long pause stretches out between them, the air too thick to swallow. They might be drunk, but they're not drunk enough for this. This strange intimacy, this silent understanding.

He's never seen her like this. So uninhibited and raw. It heartens him to know she trusts him enough to let him encounter her drunk. Lowered inhibitions are dangerous in this business. This is her way of saying she trusts him – to an extent.

Emma sighs and catches his eye, "Do me a favour. Don't remember any of this tomorrow morning. I'm not ready for you to know my secrets."

He nods as she extracts herself from the couch, pulling on her leather jacket with stunted motions and loitering awkwardly towards the door. His eyes track her movements; it is impossible to tear his gaze away when she's still being so honest.

"Okay, Swan."

With her hand on the doorknob, she tilts her head over her shoulder to regard him with a foreign (recently familiar) sort of warmth.

"Thanks Killian."

She's definitely drunk.

She's never called him by his given name before.

It's not until the door closes, and she has disappeared behind it, that he replies in a soft lilting voice.

"Anytime, Emma."

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In the morning, much to his surprise and her dismay - he remembers everything. The drinks, apparently, were nowhere near strong enough to erase the memory of her walls crumbling down around her feet right before his very eyes. The image of her, relaxed and calm and _open_, is not likely to leave him anytime soon.

He also has a throbbing headache (for more than one reason).

Hangovers suck.

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**Reviews are sorely needed and greatly appreciated - and heads up: from here, the development can only improve (the next several updates are even better than this one if you ask moi)**


	16. Chapter 16

**More development for our peaches.**

**P.S. You're all deserving of chocolate chip cookies.**

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_16\. __as the day ends: Killian gets a new mark, and Emma is surprisingly understanding._

Thinking back, he can't remember what he was doing when he got the call. Only that, when it came in, the world faded out so the only thing in focus was the phone in his hand and the target that had been sitting dormant in the back of his mind for years.

"It's your lucky day, laddie," Gold says dryly, "Not only has someone found Georgie boy, but they've put a million-dollar price tag over his head."

"Forget the money. Where is he?"

Gold chuckles darkly, "I've already sent the data to your phone. Happy hunting."

Before Killian can hang up, the man adds in a slithering voice, "You might want to hurry. With a bounty like that, you're not going to be the only one searching."

He's in his car, speeding in the direction of the airport in less than five minutes.

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The mansion, located in the Swiss Alps, is grand and elaborate - a true masterpiece of architecture. It rises up from the downy surface of snow like a monolith of stone and glass, all sleek edges and shiny surfaces, even in the dead of night.

He lies down in the snow, scanning the house and its surroundings. It's quiet, eerily so.

It doesn't stay that way, of course. As he nears the house, he hears the telltale sound of a silencer followed by a muffled thump. So he moves quicker, quieter - no one is going to kill George but him. His will be the last face that miserable bastard sees.

Understandably, he has competition. A team of three assassins try to take him out as he navigates the mansion, heading for the study where he knows the bastard will be waiting.

The first two falter easily, the third is about to engage him when he drops, eyes glazed and a bullet-wound darkening the material on his back.

At the end of the hall stands Emma, she tucks her gun away and saunters toward him.

"You here for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?" she asks lazily, smirking.

His face remains stoic as he stands and brushes himself off. While he does enjoy bantering with her, this time it's rather imperative that it is _his_ finger behind the trigger.

"Actually I just want George's head on a stick."

Emma sobers up at that, eyes narrowing as she studies him.

"This a personal one?"

"You could say that."

Killian turns to continue walking down the hallway. She sidles up to him easily and he grits his teeth. He refuses to look at her as he strides quickly in the direction of George's office (he memorized the mansion's blueprint on the comparatively short flight up here).

They aren't far away from the office and he whips around to face her, yanking her to a stop with a grip on her arm.

"Look, I know there's no point in asking you not to take this one because that's not how this works. But I don't care about the money or who makes the call on this one. I just want to be the one that buries a bullet in his skull."

If she's taken aback, she doesn't show it.

No. She simply nods, shrugs, and says, "Okay then."

He frowns, she tries to keep walking, he draws her back roughly.

"Okay, _what_?"

"Okay, we'll make sure you're the one who kills him. But I get the money. And I make the call."

The shock reverberates through his chest for a solid four seconds, thudding in time with his heart. There's nothing but blunt honesty in her eyes and he finally let's go of her arm. For someone like Emma, agreeing to this is as close as he'll ever get to a forfeit.

Hardening his features, he sets a fast pace.

Unsurprisingly, there is a team of two trying to break into the office when he gets there. They're trying to pick the lock (both men are of a slim build, not designed to kick in doors).

As their heads snap up in alert, they both lift their respective weapons.

Killian has to shove Emma into a doorway to prevent them from getting shot. He presses her firmly into it as the gunfire whizzes past their bodies - two clip his back and he hisses at the burning pain they inflict.

Flush against him, he feels her hands brush his sides. He stiffens, eyes flitting to her face. There is a second where he questions what the _hell _she is doing as her hand roam is hips. This is really _not_ the time or place.

But then she's unhooking his handgun and meeting his gaze. _Oh._

He nods and ducks, let's her crane her torso out just enough to shoot them down.

With the path clear, they both bolt for the door. Their combined weight concaves the door easily - even with a desk shoved up against it. The heavy table skids across the expensive wooden floor as they stalk into the dark room.

The curtains are shut; the entire study plunged into opaque darkness.

The lights have been cut too, so they must peer into the shadows.

In the corner, crouched next to a desk, a man cowers. Killian's smile is feral. He stalks towards him with primal glee, ignoring his pathetic whimpers for mercy as he wrenches him out of the shadows, gun pointed at the forehead of the shadowy figure.

But as a sliver of light hits the man's face, he sees that it's not George, but his personal assistant.

Emma gasps behind him and he knocks the assistant out in the same breath that he pivots to face her.

There is just enough light for Killian to make out George's features, half-hidden by Emma's face as she bites her lip to refrain from grunting at the awkward angle the spineless man has her positioned. He has a gun at her neck.

"Here to collect your pay, are you?" George hisses.

"No," Killian whispers icily, "Just here for a bit of revenge."

The older man chuckles mirthlessly, "Oh how noble of you."

Killian shakes his head, glancing at Emma, "Perhaps I am. But _she's_ certainly not."

George barely has time to voice his confusion before the blonde is slipping from his grasp like smoke, knocking the gun away and forcing him to his knees in a matter of seconds. She turns to Killian when she's finished and tips her head in George's direction.

"I believe you wanted the honor. I'll hold the door."

With one more salute she walks out of the room, closing the door behind her. Distantly, he is grateful for the privacy.

Killian's attention is brought back to George when the man spits blood at his shoes. He is breathing heavily; Swan winded him (brilliant lass that she is).

"I bet she's rough in bed," he wheezes, glancing up. All it earns him is a kick in the stomach and a warning to leave her out of it. He snickers and mutters something about hitting a nerve - the click of Killian's safety is enough to make him rethink bringing her up again.

Beady eyes stare up at him and a decade's worth of rage simmers up from the surface.

"So what did I do to you? Hm?"

"You murdered my brother."

George sneers, "He mustn't have been particularly important since he certainly wasn't particularly memorable."

There's a resounding smack as he drops to the wooden floor, blood spouting from his nose. It tints his teeth pink when he smiles a smug impersonation of pleasant and chortles.

"Go ahead. But would your brother have really wanted this?"

Another harsh blow. It does nothing to assuage the violent storm churning to life in Killian's stomach.

"You know nothing about him," he growls roughly.

Again though, even as he rolls onto his side, George merely smirks, "I know what sort of men used to work for me. Navy men are always fucking honorable - I bet your brother was just another pathetic carbon copy -"

Killian's foot landing heavily on his chest cuts him off.

Killian hopes he broke a few ribs. His coughing and grunting indicates he did and there's an iota of relief at finally being able to use up this festering pain that's plagued him for so long.

And that feeling - that minuscule alleviation - sets him into motion. He lunges at George, beating him into the floorboards until the skin of his knuckles is torn and his hands are covered in blood that both does and doesn't belong to him.

He meant to use his gun.

But by the time Emma comes in, firearm held aloft and a warning on her lips that more are on their way, George is dead. He is an unrecognizable mess of flesh beneath Killian.

For a second, her eyes widen in shock when she sees him. He can only imagine the picture he makes. Even he cannot believe his eyes when he looks down at the result of his rage. Her surprise wears off in less than a second, and then she's telling him they need to go. _Now_.

Numbly, he withdraws from George's fresh corpse and trails after her as she forges a getaway path.

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She follows him all the way to his hotel. Even when they reach his room, she doesn't leave, just welcomes herself and walks in after him, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside him - not touching.

Just kind of _there_.

He appreciates it.

The seconds tick by and still she doesn't make a move to exit. He is frozen, his body going into shock because it's done. It's done. It's finally _done_.

There is no remorse – he does not regret what he did. Maybe that makes him a monster. Maybe that makes him the mindless weapon he's always feared he would become in this industry.

Maybe she understands that.

Whatever the reason, her presence is heavy at his left. It is also incredibly delicate.

This fragile thing that exists between them right now. It is intimate in a way neither of them is prepared for.

Yet neither of them is willing to break it.

Eventually, her voice broaches the space that separates them carefully, cautiously, with a delicate hesitation that has been otherwise foreign to every other interaction between them.

"Why was this one so important to you?"

Killian swallows the thickness in his throat. That only lodges it under his breastbone where it presses uncomfortably against his lungs.

"He killed my brother."

In his periphery, he sees her expression falter, her eyes dart up to his face, her lips falling open on a soft, "Oh."

"Aye."

There is a long beat of silence where he stares at his ravaged hands, still covered in dried, flaking blood.

"So that's how you got into all this?" Emma guesses.

"Aye."

More silence.

"...What happened?"

Her question holds a lot of things for two simple, innocuous words.

They hold an inquiry, for sure. But they carry an opportunity, a tether to be bound between them, a bond of indissoluble trust. Veins of curiosity interlace her question – she wants to understand him.

It is unwise to make friends in their line of occupation. It is even more foolish to trust people. It is plain stupid to stock faith in the people you are competing against for the pay-cheque at the end of the day.

But then, perhaps it's far too late for such considerations. Not when she's sitting here and she doesn't have to be, not when they've been travelling down this road for longer than either of them bargained for.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Killian takes a deep breath and begins to wring his fingers. He stares straight ahead.

"Liam – my brother – was a member of the navy. He was a seal in the underground division – basically the military ghosts. I joined it because of him, was in training when, one day, he was sent on a mission and never came back. I found out it was an ambush - a suicide mission..." His fists clench at his side so white blooms across his scarred knuckles. When he continues, his voice rumbles in his chest, "And George _knew_ it. The bastard ordered their deaths – apparently they stumbled upon something they weren't meant to… George was arrested on suspicion of corruption not long after. Of course, he got out, went off the grid, disappeared. They never caught him. I dropped out of the navy and I've been searching for him ever since."

Emma nods.

"Until today," she says quietly.

He finally spares a glance in her direction. She's looking at him; gaze softer than anything he's seen on her before.

"Until today, aye."

Their eyes lock, he finds peace in her returning stare.

And in that untouchable moment, they are not Swan and Hook, masters in the art of death and rival assassins. They are not invincible.

They are Emma and Killian. And they are friends.

(The word feels like a lie when he says it to himself.)

(They are certainly not just '_friends_.')

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Before she leaves, he feels her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers tighten over the sinew and muscles there, a silent show of support. And if he reaches up to cover her hand with his for a short second, she doesn't comment.

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**Keep the reviews coming - they are indeed very welcome!**


	17. Chapter 17

**This is my favourite one so far. This is it. Not _it _it but this is a big thing. Oh, and there is a nod to '_Captain America: The Winter Soldier_' in here - just a line I loved and had to use.**

**So, you know, enjoy this lovely thing they have going while it lasts. Things are going to get complicated very soon.**

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_17\. __be still: Killian's got more than a few scars, but it seems Emma does too._

When they eventually manage to stumble out of the sewers, where they've been running for the past three hours to evade the dearly departed Senator Grail's army of goons, they are long past tired and deep into the realms of heady enervation. Thankfully, there's a hotel five minutes away - and they secure a room within the hour (with some distasteful looks from the receptionists because they are covered in grime and smell like shit - _literally_).

Yanking open the door, he throws his gun and backpack at the bed and starts making a path for the bathroom. Behind him, Emma mirrors his ministrations and it's only when they're actually standing in said bathroom that it occurs to him that there's only one shower left to accommodate two very impatient, very rancid-smelling mercenaries.

Evidently, it occurs to her too because she slowly, tiredly turns to face him.

Their eyes lock, heavy-lidded and slack with exhaustion, and he sighs deeply.

"You go first, I'll find a shower in one of the other rooms," he mumbles, shuffling towards the door. Honestly, he's not got the energy to argue with her. At least, that's the excuse he wrangles himself into believing (the truth is he's gone soft, and it's all her bloody fault).

He makes it about two steps.

"_Wait_," she groans, a note of petulance in her tone, and he turns to face her, expression completely neutral. Emma rolls her eyes and starts to peel off her trademark (now-ruined) leather jacket, "If you go into another room, you could get caught and we really _don't_ need that," he thinks she's going to tell him to wait for her to finish (and he thinks she might just be the cruelest person he's ever met), but then she adds, "Just keep your underwear _on_."

Killian stiffens.

_What?_

He's too shocked for any innuendos to come to mind, his mouth dropping open as she reaches for the button on her mud-slick jeans. Tearing his eyes away from her, he stares hard at the wall - his throat drying because she's undressing right in front of him and suggesting… _what_? That they _shower_ together?

Killian Jones, ladies and gentlemen. Master assassin, serial womanizer, king of debauchery - and he's reduced to a stuttering, gaping mess at the prospect of being in very close proximity to a very naked Emma. He's never felt like such a spineless twig in his life.

"A-are you sure?" he asks, suddenly alert despite the heaviness in his muscles.

She shrugs as she steps out of her jeans so she's only wearing her simple black cotton bra and underwear, cavalier as ever, "We're both adults. And if you try anything I'll kick your ass. So… yeah. I'm sure."

Her indifference assuages some of the trepidation curling around his chest, and he looks at the door one more time. He can still reject her offer, trudge over to another room and steal a quick shower. But she's right; he risks getting caught and the police will be scouting the area by now so they need to be as succinct as possible.

And it mightn't be _that _much of a struggle to have to shower with Emma Swan.

Taking a deep breath, he punches down the voices in his head that tell him this is an immeasurably bad idea and instead tugs his shirt over his head. Behind him, he hears the shower spurt to life and her answering soft hiss of relief when the hot streams hit her cool skin.

And he definitely does _not _file that sound away for later ruminating.

Stripping down to his briefs, he turns around and moves into the small space - keeping his eyes on the tiled floor until he's standing under the stream in front of her. It's been a while since Killian Jones has felt self-conscious but he can't stop the way he pulls himself up a little straighter, painfully aware of every scar and mark and insecurity he bears. There's a long moment where he just stares at the shower drain, glinting brightly in the harsh overhanging light.

His gaze eventually drifts up, slowly - following the long lines of her legs, the flat plane of her stomach, the gentle curve of her brassiere-covered chest - until they are secured on jade green eyes. Her hair is plastered to her head, and most of the dirt and blood has been washed clear from her face, leaving it clearer than he's ever seen it.

In fact, it's the first time he's seen her void of any mask; no soot, or dirt, or blood, or sweat, or make up to hide the woman behind the guns and ammo and unending impudence.

And he can't help but think that she is beautiful. Remarkably so.

Swallowing down the overpowering urge to kiss her, he focuses on wiping the layers of gunk from his face and neck and shoulders, closing his eyes and trying desperately to pretend he's not standing directly opposite a half-naked Emma Swan.

"You weren't lying when you said you used to be in the navy," she says, startling him from his reverie. He opens his eyes to find her staring at the cliche anchor tattoo on his left shoulder and he smirks without mirth.

"Oohra," he says dryly.

Emma cants her head, studying him for a long moment.

He feels raw and exposed under her scrutiny, and not just because he's only wearing his briefs.

"Do you think you would ever go back?" she asks, "I mean - if you could - would you finish your training?"

His eyes don't leave hers as he shakes his head, "No. Other than the impossibility of what you're suggesting, I could never…" His voice drifts off, and he can't explain the pain he associates with his old uniform and that life of blind loyalty but she doesn't press him. Maybe she sees it in his eyes, maybe she can sense his discomfort, but she drops it nonetheless. And, distantly, he feels unequivocally grateful for her unspoken understanding.

Instead she purses her lips, "Well I can't say I'm unhappy about that - I don't have a fantastic history with army men."

Before he can say a word, she's pulling her bra strap to the side to reveal a white puckered mark about the size of his thumbnail.

"Got this when I got in a fight with an ex-marine turned personal bodyguard about three years ago. Son of a bitch got me in the shoulder and," she lets her bra strap snap back into place and points to another similarly-sized scar on her waist, "_there_. Damn shame, too. I used to look amazing in bikinis."

He cocks an eyebrow in amusement, "Yeah, I'm sure you look awful in them now."

They smirk at each other then, and she gives a minuscule shake of her head and pokes him in the arm.

"Where'd you get that one?" she asks, and he realizes she just indicated a long faded pink line. Killian's eye flit between the scar and her face and he chuckles.

"Have you perchance heard the old adage, 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?'"

Emma's eyes widen fractionally. Her lips twitch with barely concealed amusement, "What did you do, Romeo?"

He sighs, "I may or may not have unintentionally found my way into the bed of my mark's beloved only daughter. And she was more or less furious when she realized I was there to kill him."

"Ouch."

"Indeed."

"Not gonna lie - I don't blame her."

He gives her an affronted look, "Thanks darling."

His gaze sweeps her figure, objectively appraising the dusting of scars and marks that are dotted across random places on her body (they do nothing but work in her favor) (calling her scars ugly would be akin to calling the stars a blemish on the night sky). He finds one, a small one; a cigarette burn on the fold of skin connecting her thumb and pointer finger. He's lifting the hand up between them before he realizes what he's doing.

His thumb brushes the damaged skin tenderly and he catches her eye, "What about this one?"

He should just know from the way she pales that it's nothing good - but he doesn't drop her hand, or her gaze. He sees her swallow thickly and then she's staring at her hand, a haunted look passing over her face as she speaks in a tone of forced nonchalance.

"That wasn't from a job," she says, clearing her throat when it catches, "My - uh - when I was eight, my foster dad was a bit of a smoker." She doesn't give him anymore explanation and he doesn't need her to say anything else to piece the rest of the story together, his chest tightening at the image of a young Emma cradling a cruelly burnt hand to her chest.

She tries to laugh it off, but it is hollow, as she gently pries her hand away all the while joking unconvincingly, "The bastard died of emphysema before I could get to him… _Unfortunately_."

His jaw locks and, without thinking, he taps the long-since faded scar on his cheek.

"My old man wasn't a big fan of smokes but he _loved_ the drink," he keeps his eyes anywhere but her face as he says, with the same sort of feigned indifference she has just used, "Thankfully, I didn't have to stick around for long; social services tend to frown upon glassing your own children."

There's a long beat of silence and then he finally forces himself to face her.

Her eyes are soft, her brow furrowed as she stares at him with a look of mutual sympathy and understanding.

And despite the fact that they've been standing in their underwear for the past five minutes, it feels _intimate_ (in a way that surpasses their state of undress). These moments between them; they've been occurring with more frequency lately. Seconds and minutes and iotas where she knows more about him than he's ever wanted to reveal, and he understands her with greater clarity than he's ever thought possible.

Again, that pesky urge to kiss her overwhelms Killian.

He stifles it though: that is one boundary they cannot cross without consequences.

He reaches to turn off the shower, leaning forward and extending his arm past her waist to where the handle sits. It puts them in even closer proximity, their faces separated by an inch, her body heat radiating up into his torso.

The second he notices, he pauses. And, to his infinite surprise, she doesn't push him away. She watches him.

"Why did you tell me that?" Emma quavers.

Killian turns the tap off so the water disappears, leaving them shrouded only by the lingering steam. His eyes flicker to her lips of their own accord.

"You showed me yours, I showed you mine."

Then he pulls away and steps out of the shower, grabbing a towel and nearly running from the bathroom so she can change (and maybe also because he doesn't have the same self-control he used to).

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**Please sir, may I have a review?**


	18. Chapter 18

**Here, have some feels.**

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_18\. __heaven doesn't seem far away: Killian is in trouble and seeks help in an unlikely person (or maybe the most likely person)._

This is a stupid idea. He's stupid, and this is stupid. This is so _stupid_ but holy buggering fuck he thinks he's about to pass out.

Stumbling down the barely lit porch corridor of the dingy hotel, he has to stop several times to catch his breath. His fingers leave blood smears on the walls and he grimaces when he sees them, looking over his shoulder to see a line of the scarlet fingerprints leading up from the small car park where the door of his hot-wired car is still hanging open.

But he keeps moving, pushing forward and gritting his teeth against the intense pain in his abdomen even as a voice in his head growls that he's a fool if he thinks this is where he should be. Jefferson is usually his first port of call when shit like this happens, or _hell_ even Gold (the man may not give two shits about his personal well-being, but he is financially invested in his life longevity).

Unfortunately, his comms are still lying somewhere in the hotel lobby. They fell out in his haste to evade the authorities, sprinting down the street. While he felt no need to attack them, they _certainly_ felt a need to shoot him.

Killian reaches the door with a heavy sigh of relief – he knows she was still doing recon for this target when he decided to stage his attack in a foolish bid to get ahead. Stupid decision really.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid_ –

The door swings open before he can even knock. He sees her gun before he sees her; she has it held up in a defensive position. When she sees his face though, her eyes trailing down past his hands to the ever-growing bloodstain on his shirt, they widen and the weapon drops like a leaden weight as she swoops down to catch him before he can fall over her threshold.

His weight lands heavily against her and she stumbles back, letting the door fall closed behind him when she drags him through, lowering him gently to the floor.

"Killian, what are you doing here? What happened?" she asks, frown deepening as she picks his jacket away and studies the wound more closely. She grimaces, and he refuses to believe he sees panic in those bright jade eyes.

She leans over him so their eyes are level.

"Killian, what _happened_?"

There are two of Emma. Three. Now four and his eyes dart between them in confusion. She's blurry too.

There are black spots around his vision and he tries to reach out to one of the Emma's hovering over him, slightly transfixed by the way her tangled blonde hair falls in a curtain around his face.

"Cops'ra bloody menace," he slurs, feeling his consciousness ebb away.

Emma shakes him, he winces, but everything still fades to black in a matter of seconds.

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He wakes only once, in a state of intense delirium.

Emma's face hovers close to his – a blurred version of it anyway. He knows it's her though, something in him just knows that it's her blonde hair falling forward from where it's supposed to be tucked behind her ears, that it's her eyes piercing him as a fuzzy voice repeats his name like a mantra.

It's her voice too, he realises, and listens intently.

"Killian? Killian, it's Emma – _Killian_?" she asks over and over again.

Something feather light touches his bare chest, fingers skirting down his ribs and he realises with belated joy that they are her hands. Until, of course, they nudge a spot on his side and he grits his teeth to keep from crying out.

"Sorry," she murmurs.

And he doesn't mind, because he's drifting out again.

His eyes flutter closed, a soft hand frames his jaw firmly.

"Don't you dare die on me," she says – and it sounds half like an order and half like a plea.

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Hands clenching and unclenching in the sheets under him, he wakes amongst swathes of damp cotton. A thin sheen of sweat covers his skin and he grunts in pain at the horrific burning sensation in his side.

Distantly, he hears someone curse.

Eyelids fluttering, he doesn't recognise the room he's in for a painfully long moment. He thinks perhaps he was caught and is about to undergo an interrogation – it wouldn't be the first time – but then he sees a familiar face and instantly calms down. She's carrying a cloth in one hand as she perches on the edge of the bed, wiping it across his face.

"Jones, you with me?" she asks, voice firm.

He groans and her lips twitch slightly with relief.

"Before you ask," she says, "The bullet didn't do any major damage. I called in a favour with a friend who patched you up. I've worked with him before so don't freak out, he's pretty good when it comes to discretion and all that. You should make a full recovery – you know, _eventually_."

As she finishes speaking, she stands and moves to drop the rag in the kitchen sink. He traces her movements across the room with steady eyes, unsure how to broach the sudden and undeniable tension between them. The frigidity of the air is not born from aggravation for once, but rather an understanding that their relationship has endured yet another unmitigated shift.

There's a fragment of his soul that regrets seeking her out because he knows with every fibre of his being that they have no room for this - doing what they do. It seems rather pointless now, especially with what has transpired.

After all, saving someone's life in the heat of the moment is one thing.

_Trusting_ someone else to save your life? Well, that's something else altogether.

And he did just that. Regardless of the circumstances, he deliberately sought her out and more or less placed his survival in her more than capable hands. Distantly, he thinks it's strange that he put his life into the temporary possession of a person whose principal domain is death.

God damn.

He trusts her. She knows it too, based on the very specific way she's treading glass at the moment – unsure how to grasp something she's clearly unequipped to sift through. Emotions tend to take a back seat with them. That's just how it is.

But now they've been forced to the forefront and neither knows how to _do _this.

He doesn't have to see her face to know she's masking her emotions, schooling her expression into something unreadable with her back to him. When she rotates, it's with an air of indifference; like nothing has changed, like the room isn't charged and waiting for ignition. Until their eyes lock.

Then she falters.

"Swan," he begins tentatively, voice quiet, tone placating.

"I've got another mark," she cuts him off, striding over to where he now sees she has packed a black duffle bag. He frowns and watches her jerky, un-coordinated movements as she speaks in a detached voice, "I've left you a burner phone on the bedside table with enough credit for you to make a couple of calls. The room's been paid for in cash for the next three days if you need it –"

"Swan –"

"My friend also left behind some painkillers if you need them – they're on the nightstand with a bottle of water as well –"

"_Emma_."

She stiffens, the bag looped over one shoulder as she stops mid-step towards the door. Though she doesn't speak, she also doesn't turn to face him and he sighs, rubbing his forehead.

Now that he finally has her undivided attention, he doesn't know what to do with it. Should he address the abrupt shift between them? Should he explain why he came here (even though, to be completely honest, he's still untangling that himself)? Should he ask her why she helped him? Why she essentially saved his life with no expectations of recompense?

Several sentences make a circuit in his head in the second that follows.

Eventually he just says, in a gravelly cadence that betrays his innate lack of finesse; "Thank you."

There's nowhere near enough room to communicate the breadth of his gratitude in those two meagre words. Nor is there enough space to express all that needs to be said, but he can't form any other words.

Her head tilts ever so slightly, just enough that she can glance at him over her shoulder.

She shrugs, "No problem."

And then she's gone.

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Later, after he's called Gold and relayed the details of the situation and he waits impatiently for Jefferson to arrive and transfer him to a more secure location where he can get his wounds reassessed, he thinks.

He ponders the past twenty-four hours and it finally occurs to him – the realisation sprinkling across his skin as he leans over to swallow a painkiller dry.

She saved his life.

A vague image of her face, drawn tight with fear and hovering close to his side, comes to mind. Hazy and muddled, he recognises it as a fleeting moment before his consciousness had fully ebbed into him. In his head, he studies it ruthlessly; he picks at the blurred visuals, assessing the way she had looked at him, the shadow of palpable concern in her jade eyes.

Knowing that she cares – enough to keep him alive at the very least – inspires an unidentifiable feeling deep in his gut.

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**Review for the kindly old apologetic muse-deprived writer?**


	19. Chapter 19

**I'm so sorry for my absence but I promise I have my reasons. Here is my way of making it up to you.**

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_19\. __desperate times, desperate measures: Sometimes avoiding capture requires drastic action._

In hindsight, it was a colossally bad decision to target the French politician at his birthday Gala in Monte Carlo. But, truth be told, waiting until he returned to his delightfully isolated chateau in the countryside might have ultimately cost him the kill.

Had he waited that long, numerous things may have happened: another assassin, withdrawal of the hit (you would be surprised how often it happens) (humans are fickle creatures), or the politician may very well have found out about the donation hanging over his impending death certificate.

So the only remaining option for any self-respecting master assassin was to sneak into the elaborately decorated ballroom and pray for an opening.

Unfortunately, what Killian _hadn't _counted on was being found out before he could so much as load his bloody gun.

And now he's trying to sift through the crowds as inconspicuously as possible without alarming any of his fellow partygoers. The thin European men and women share looks of muted concern as the uniformed men at the front of the room start to make their way through the masses.

They're holding up a profile. He doesn't bother looking at it.

He thinks it is undoubtedly his.

Until he notices the way a second person is drifting discreetly away from the stern-looking authorities. He watches her across the crowd as she calmly and quietly weaves through the people, and can't help the way his heart stutters as she looks up and catches sight of him. Her lips definitely twitch despite the severity of the situation.

If they are caught, the consequences will be severe.

(And of course they are the only two assassins stupid enough to take a risk this monumental in the hopes of securing a kill.)

As they reach the back of the room where the congregation of people is less dense, a silent agreement is struck and they meet in the middle - acting the part of separated couple. It gives them a cover for any astute individual who may have been watching their movements.

It's far too easy to put on a broad smile of relief when he nears her.

She reciprocates the expression, and again his chest squeezes because, if he didn't know any better, he would say it's genuine. Then she's swaying closer to him, and all coherent thoughts leave his mind in favor of assessing the way the dress hugs her figure in _all _the right places.

There is definitely a special spot in hell reserved for him and his internal debauchery.

Smirking despite himself, he says, "Glad I found you."

Emma throws a glance around them, "Ditto."

Then she leans closer, speaking just loud enough for him to hear, "What do you want to do?"

Any mirth that may have existed before leaves her tone and he's forced to glimpse the wall of men with gun-sidled hips and stony faces. Swallowing thickly (this is indeed one of those rare tight spots where he feels the unshakeable need to pray), he moves his hand to rest on her waist.

"This is technically a hotel, so if we can make it into an elevator and find a vacant room - we can use the windows to get out. You scoped them on your way in, yeah?" he suggests, pulling back to meet her eyes. She nods an affirmative to his question; a good assassin always has a getaway plan and they are both _great _assassins.

"Sounds like a plan," she murmurs, letting her gaze flit between his eyes and his mouth, still acting as far as he can tell.

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Through some stroke of immeasurably good luck, they make it to the elevators and even manage to stop at a floor that appears relatively empty. The rooms on the western facing wall have balconies that look out onto a smaller adjacent building from which they can escape. So when the elevator doors spring open, he grabs her hand and begins to tug her behind him.

He leads her down the long corridor that curves to the right, trying not to focus on the warmth of her palm against his. Nor ponder the fact that she hasn't ripped it from his clasp the way she once would have.

It isn't a strictly necessary gesture - she could just as easily follow him without holding his hand.

But he can't bring himself to let go, and she's certainly not protesting -

His thoughts are brought to a dead halt when he hears footsteps. Emma stops too. They both hold their breath as they listen to the person - no, _two _people - practically stomping towards them. Their foreign voices carry too, and Killian _feels _the blood drain from his face as he mentally translates.

"_Sixth floor cleared. So far just a bunch of drunk patrons and amorous couples, we're just about to check the seventh for her."_

Buggering fuck.

Emma jerks his hand back towards her and he turns.

It's the first time she's ever looked truly anxious and all he wants to do at that moment is ensure her safety. He's never wanted anything so fiercely. Darting his gaze between hers, he can hear her mentally weighing up their options at the same speed he is.

They can try to return back the way they came, but they won't be able to enter the elevator in time.

The approaching guard's words linger on his mind for a second when he gets an idea.

An idea he's sure he'll regret.

When he meets her gaze again, he thinks she might have the same idea. Because she's chewing her lip and glancing between his mouth and the space over his shoulder where the suited men will be any minute.

The accented voices are getting louder, closer, and he swallows the thickness in his throat.

Emma takes a deep breath, "Don't look into this."

She leans into him, wrapping her arms around his neck, breathing against his lips.

"Wouldn't dream of it, love," he rasps back, just before she slants her mouth over his and the world fades into nothing but her. He wrenches her violently against him under the guise of a fiercely inebriated and sincerely motivated man. Really, he just wants to drink in as much of this while he can - because _damn _can the woman kiss.

Stumbling backward, Emma pulls him with her so he can brace them both against the wall. In the back of his mind, he hears the guards getting closer and closer. And realistically, he knows they needn't have started kissing yet but _method acting. _

A soft moan flutters past her parted lips when he traces her lower lip with his tongue, hands wandering up and down her back, tracing the knobs of her spine. She is grappling with his shirt like she's try to rip it from his shoulders, and he uses her reaction as fuel to the raging fire roaring to life in his bones.

All he wants, in this moment, is for this to last.

Suddenly, he wants the guards to linger. He wants them to check the rooms either side of them, wants them to loiter past at a snails pace. As long as this doesn't end any time soon, he doesn't care.

He just doesn't want to have to stop.

Especially when one of her hands descends to his ass.

He grunts in surprise, unintentionally jaunting his hips forward. And they both stiffen as pleasure shoots through him and, if her dropped jaw and hooded eyes are any indication, her veins too. Spurred by something he cannot describe, uncaring that this is just a rouse to distract the guards, he holds her gaze and tries another experimental roll of his hips.

Emma's eyes flutter closed as she drops her head back against the wall behind her, her fingers bruising the skin of his shoulders where she has chosen to anchor herself. It gives him the perfect opportunity to bury his face in her neck. Biting down on the junction there, he melts his body against hers, closing every inch of space between them.

Breathy whimpers fill the space, swirling around him until everything fades out and there is just him and her and he wants it to be real, wants her to be here with him for the simple pleasure of it, wants her reactions to be something more than lust and acting -

"Excusez-moi monsieur et madame, mais nous devons vous demander de convoquer dans le hall d'accueil."

He curses so loudly in his head, he's surprised no one hears it.

Halting his movements, he reluctantly adopts a dazed expression and turns to the two unimpressed-looking men. Emma is still breathing heavily, leaning against the wall, eyes half-closed in some kind of exaggerated stupor, and he gives the officers a pathetic look that begs them to repeat what they said. He wasn't really trying to translate last time.

"_There are criminals in the building, we must ask that you both move to the lobby for your safety."_

They can't do that though. The lobby will be even more dangerous - practically swarmed by suit-clad authorities. His lips part in a drunken imitation of a smile and he wraps an arm securely around Emma's waist. She looks dazedly between the three men before turning to him, faux ignorance twisting her delicate features.

"What's happening?" she asks in a British accent that nearly makes him laugh. The two officers roll their eyes and fold their arms, waiting impatiently for them to move.

Killian tips his head down to the shell of her ear, "I'll take the one on the left."

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It takes four hours of shooting, running across rooftops and speeding through the immaculate city as the moon rises and falls. But eventually.

_Eventually_, they are free. Her dress is ruined (again) and his jacket is missing, her hair is a mess and his shirt is in tatters and there is blood and grime covering both of them. They're alive though. A little bruised, a little tired - but _alive._

She slides down the alley wall they have taken refuge in, resting with her knees to her chest and her head in her hands as she catches her breath. He watches her all the while, doubled over and struggling for air in much the same way. It is quiet save for their heavy inhales and exhales, a soft soundtrack that takes him back to the hotel.

His lips tingle as he remembers.

"So - that was - _fun_," he wheezes, grinning.

Emma lifts her head and throws her legs out, staring at him in disbelief and just the faintest hint of amusement.

"I seriously think you need to re-consider your definition of fun."

His eyes darken, voice lowering as he finally catches his breath and tells her lowly, "Oh, I don't believe I do."

The heavy undertones visibly hit her and her smile falters for a second, making way for realization followed swiftly by shock. It sits on her face for a short second, but then (to his infinite surprise) she rolls her eyes good-naturedly and shoves herself into a standing position.

Emma rolls her shoulder with a wince and loiters past him.

"Remember what I said," she quips, smacking his cheek lightly. His shoulders definitely do _not _drop in disappointment.

Instead he grins and wiggles his eyebrows, watching her deadpan expression make way for a smirk just before she turns to exit the alley. He scratches the spot behind his ear and tries to ignore the tugging feeling in his chest.

"What a shame," he murmurs into the blank space she leaves behind. Pathetic sod that he is.

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	20. Chapter 20

**Here you go - all the love to Liz for being so crazy-supportive and beautiful despite my decidedly sparse updates.**

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_20\. __the art of skirting: they still haven't spoken about Monte Carlo._

"I hate Russia."

Killian chuckles despite the fact he can't really feel the tips of his nose, ears, and fingers – the sound coming out in a succession white clouds that float up into the air as if he needed reminding just how cold it is. Shuddering slightly as the temperature bites into what little skin he has exposed, he looks around the snow-capped mountainous terrain for where she might be.

He finds nothing except the thin strip of road that leads to their mark's cabin. Viktor Harsky sure knows how to manufacture isolation.

"Don't be like that, darling – a little cold weather's good for the immune system," he responds, listening intently for her crackled response through the comms.

He continues to scour the snowy white peaks and dips for any sign of her – surely she has taken up position with her favourite Barret M82. The same one he nearly managed to pilfer from her in a bet that saw him lose his beloved Kalashnikov AK-47.

Then again, he did end up successfully inheriting her best F-2000 assault rifle. The same one she supposedly received as a gift from an arms dealer just before she used it on him. Poor sod certainly hadn't seen that coming when he presented his latest conquest with a weapon of her choosing.

Killian grins something feral at the idea of Emma spraying bullets into any man foolish enough to assume there is a price for her affections. It's not exactly something he's proud of.

Jealousy looks good on no one.

Though that one time in Paris with Madame Franco, Emma had worn it exceptionally well (at least, he thinks she was). Not that she'd ever admit she was jealous - she won't even address their kiss in Monte Carlo.

Heat shoots up his spine at the memory and for a short second the cold fades away, replaced by the vivid recollections of her head lolled back with pleasure, her fierce eyes locked on his as they both took equal pleasure in the simple sensation of his hips pressed flush against hers.

Emma's voice in his ear startles him and he jumps, losing his sights for a couple of seconds as he jolts the gun in his deft hands.

"You sound like a domestic soccer mom."

Readjusting himself in the snow, he retorts, "Takes one to know one."

"Fuck you and your bake sale, Helen."

He has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing.

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"Where the _hell_ are you?" he asks her again after three hours of waiting. He is distantly impressed by how well she seems to have hidden herself. Especially with how long it's been - three hours, four minutes and twenty-two seconds to be precise about it.

According to Jefferson, the smarmy bastard they're trying to kill is running late. Literally, the tardy little shit is merely taking his sweet bloody time arriving at his final destination.

Emma barks a sarcastic laugh, "Yeah because I'm going to reveal my position to you. We're in competition, idiot."

"You Americans are so ready and willing to belligerently insult anyone and everyone. Does it ever get exhausting being so volatile?"

"I'll tell you if you tell me why the British are so arrogant. You think just because you have a nice accent and extensive vocabulary it makes you better?"

"On the contrary – I see no correlation between a person's lexicon and their individual significance. And I'm from Ireland, not Britain." He pauses momentarily, his lips already drawing into a grin, "And did you just call my accent _'nice?_'"

Emma's line is silent and there is an extended moment where he worries he has crossed the unspoken boundary they've agreed to.

Finally, _mercifully_, she answers him with a saccharine sweet voice, "It's the _only_ reason I listen when you speak, sweetie."

"I'm unsure whether I should be insulted or flattered right now."

"I was going for a thinly veiled insult but take it as you will."

"In that case, I'm going to bask in the small compliment you just paid me."

She huffs and he just _knows_ she's rolling her eyes.

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"I have a direct feed to the car's speakers," Jefferson informs him after another hour passes with no sighting. After this much time, Killian's patience is not just wearing thin – it is nonexistent. And it only makes him want to shoot this sodding mark even more (even if his lack of punctuality has directly resulted in some quality banter with Emma).

"Patch me through – let's see what's taking so long," Killian sighs, relaxing into the snow. Even now, the vehicle is still around half an hour away according to his sources.

"You got a feed into Harsky's SUV too?" Emma intones a second later.

"Aye."

"Bastard better have a damn good reason for keeping me out this long. It's going to get dark soon and then it'll be _really _cold."

Shaking his head in amusement, he hears the telltale click of Jefferson's hardware just before a thick Russian voice fills his ears. Thankfully, he happens to be multilingual so he understands precisely what his target is ranting inarticulately about.

_"- mean anything! We've gone over this, Vera – I don't know what else you want from me."_

Killian frowns as a female voice (probably Vera - Harsky's wife) responds with equal fervor, but there's unmistakable anguish laced into her words.

_"You keep saying that but you act as if nothing happened."_

Harsky growls incoherently, "_That's because nothing happened!"_

_"I saw you with your tongue halfway down her throat! You were dry humping like two teenagers!"_

Killian tries to shut out the unwelcome reappearance of Monte Carlo in his head at the woman's description. It's rather ridiculous how much it has the ability to distract him. He wonders idly if Emma is thinking about the same thing as she listens in on this lover's spat.

Of course she isn't but a lad can dream.

Tuning back into the conversation, Harsky tries again to placate his partner, "_Exactly, sweetheart, we only kissed – it was nothing but a brief failure in judgement. It didn't mean a single thing, kisses never truly do."_

_"Do not call me sweetheart," _she hisses back, just before her voice starts to break, "_And do not downplay it just because it was a kiss. A kiss like that is never just a kiss."_

Killian's grip tightens involuntarily on his gun.

He swears he hears a soft intake of breath on the other side of the line, but he shrugs it off as the woman who he can only presume is now crying softly. The sound makes him even more eager to shoot this bastard.

_"I don't know what you want from me_," Harsky says dismissively, completely unsympathetic to Vera's angst.

She sniffles quietly, _"I want you to stop trying to pretend it was a silly mistake. I'm not stupid, Viktor. And I would like you to stop treating me like I am – you can't make this up to me with a trip to your mountain lodge and some fine jewellery." _There's a long pause, and Killian has never listened so intently to a business-irrelevant conversation.

"_Please just be honest with me. You owe me that," _she pleads.

Harsky sighs heavily over the line, but finally snaps. His rough voice is hard and unyielding, more worn down than complacent. And he speaks quickly, clearly wanting nothing more than for this to simply end.

"_Fine. You are right. I have wanted her – Alisa – for months. If you hadn't interrupted when you did, I'd have had no qualms about taking her right there in that corridor. But it was the first and only time we have ever kissed. You understand?"_

Vera breathes heavily but is silent. Killian can only assume she nods because Harsky eventually just says, "_Good._"

The line is silent again, might as well be dead because they do not speak. And the car will be coming into his line of sight soon enough, and then he will kill the prick before they can reach the luxurious cabin at the end of this winding snow-blanketed road.

For whatever reason, Emma doesn't say anything else while they wait.

Even as he tries to focus on keeping his breathing and trigger-finger steady, Killian can't help but notice the way his heart feels tight and his chest feels heavy.

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The kill shot is clean and it comes from her gun.

Which is surprising since he's supposed to be the marksman.

He is aware that his hands weren't as steady as they usually are. Something (he refuses to admit what) threw him unequivocally off guard.

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They find themselves in a local bar that night, sipping lightly at the local brand of vodka as they finally soak in the warmth offered by the hearth in the nearby wall of the establishment. There are not many people in the place, just enough for it to be an inviting atmosphere.

Killian nurses his glass with a deep frown, still mulling over the conversation they both overheard. The fact that Emma has been quieter than usual doesn't assuage his concerns. He really doesn't want to lose whatever this is before it's even had a chance to begin.

And to be completely honest, he's certain he'd rather suffer in silence and maintain their friendship than lose her altogether. Strange as it is, she's the only real friend he's had in an exceedingly long time.

"Penny for your thoughts?" she asks, stirring him from his reverie.

He side-eyes her with a soft upturn of his lips and takes a nip of the vodka. It burns down his throat.

"Just thinking about how so very unaffected Vera was by Harsky's death."

The woman had been shocked, perhaps horrified by the gore, but she hadn't looked saddened let alone grief-stricken. Granted, neither assassin truly blamed her after the man's insensitive attitude regarding his transitory paramour.

"We did her a favor," Emma responds bitterly.

"Finally something we agree on," Killian jests, lifting his glass towards her without turning. She clinks her drink against his but doesn't twist to face him either. They're both just staring at the bar top.

For several minutes they sit in silence.

Downing their vodka, signaling refills, drinking in the heat before they retire to the upstairs hotel rooms.

The alcohol must finally catch up to Killian in one way or another because he asks the question that's been plaguing him since that afternoon.

"Do you think she was right?"

Emma tips her head in his direction, "Hm?"

He runs his finger along the rim of his glass, "Well she said a kiss - like the one Harsky shared with the lady Alisa, a... a passionate one like that – is never just a kiss. Do you agree?"

In his peripheral vision he sees her jade eyes flash with something. Then she returns her gaze to the opposite wall, staring at it almost determinedly. She shrugs.

"Do I think a fiery make-out session always constitutes something more?" she shakes her head resolutely, "Nope."

Then she takes a long gulp of her drink and garners the barkeep's attention for yet another refill. She swallows that one down as soon as it arrives and plays absentmindedly with the empty glass. Faint inebriation must only just now be setting in for her because she asks him with gently slurred delivery, "What about you?"

He considers her question thoughtfully.

He wants to say yes.

Yes, he does think a passionate kiss built from months of friendship and hard-earned trust and slow-burning sexual attraction will _always _come to fruition in something more. But he doesn't want to hope. And she is his only friend, and he can't afford to hope.

"No. That's preposterous," he says.

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	21. Chapter 21

**Sorry for the long wait - life has a bad habit of catching up with me lately. Much loves.**

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_21\. she is the fire and the flood: apparently Emma enjoys Ed Sheeran_

There's a brief second where he thinks she's moaning in pain – a second where his heart jolts a little and his hands clench and he's already resolved to find her. Then, he hears her humming.

_Then_, he hears her singing under her breath.

"Come on and take it back now, come on and take it back for us. Don't you fade into the back, love," she murmurs, apparently unaware that he's just tapped her line. She really should know by now that he'll jump in eventually, commandeer her network for a spot of conversation before the competition really begins.

Evidently not – because he highly doubts that she'd still be crooning what sounds like Ed Sheeran if she knew he was eavesdropping.

He stays silent as he crawls through the night towards the concrete establishment nestled tightly between two hills. He reaches a wall, sliding along it until he finds himself at what he knows to be the south entrance. Also the least heavily fortified entrance.

Emma's voice is like a soundtrack to his motions as he soundlessly pins in the security code.

"I take it back with the rhythm and _blues_, try'na act like Jack Black when I bring it _t'school_. I make a _beat_ with my _feet_ by just hittin' the loops, bringing the lyrics to _prove_ that I can fit in these _shoes_."

The door cracks open and he slides in.

"I give you the _truth_ through the _vocal_ booth, and stars _burst_ out on a scene like an _opal_ fruit. They try to take _aim_ like Beckham when he _goes_ to shoot but then again that's what they're _s'posed_ to do."

Two men with masks and guns emerge from the shadows and his face contorts into something delighted but feral. Launching himself forward, he disarms them swiftly before they exchange blows, nary a whoosh of air breaking the silence – and all the while she sings under her breath.

"And I'm supposed to be calm I tattooed the lyrics onto ma arm whisperin' everything that happens is from now on."

He parries a right hook from one as he kicks out at the other, twisting his limbs around and around as he fights them off.

"I'll be ready to start _again_ by the end of the _song_ since they're claimin' that I handled it wrong. But then I've never had an enemy – except the NME but I'll be sellin' _twice_ as many copies as their magazines'll _ever_ be."

One goes down, the other lands a hit to his shoulder.

He grunts in pain and that's when she stops singing.

He curses the man he's fighting for ruining it for him, knocking out the offending man just as Emma's voice comes tentatively across the line.

"Jones?"

"Don't stop on my account," he says between ragged breaths, rolling his shoulder.

He can hear her near-inaudible growl before she grinds out, "How long have you been listening?"

"Long enough to know you're a closet Ed Sheeran fangirl," Killian snickers, reassuming his stance and stealthily pushing forward through the dimly-lit corridors. Emma growls again, louder this time, and swears profusely.

"I hate you."

"Come on, take it back now."

"Fuck you."

"Take it back for us."

"I'll end your life with a blunt knife."

"_Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-oh_," he hums, relishing in the way she must be scowling right now.

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"Have you ever considered a singing career?" he murmurs as he pads quickly and quietly through the halls, gun poised in front of him. She mutters incoherently and he grins: an indignant Emma Swan is an amusing Emma Swan.

He reaches for a door when the roof above him creaks.

Brow furrowing, he looks up just as the vent falls open and something leaps down.

Or rather _someone._

A flash of unmistakable blonde is the only thing that keeps him from shooting at the black mass of limbs that lands lithely beside him. Unfortunately, that is only after he recovers from the shock of seeing her so unexpectedly. He mightn't have made a sound but he can't say the same about his facial expression.

He schools it promptly, but she still catches the wide eyes and slack jaw.

She lifts an eyebrow and straightens up, "I didn't frighten you did I, Jones?"

Her voice is quiet but unmistakably condescending.

He glowers, "No, Lady Sheeran."

Emma's eyes narrow, "Call me that again and I won't just scare you next time."

They start to walk down the hall and he elbows her in the ribs, "_Promise_?"

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"I've got to say, listening to you use British terms of endearment is quite a pleasant experience. You should do it more often."

"Bring it up one more time. I _dare_ you."

"Just appreciating your vocals, Swan. No need to be hostile."

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She trips him just before they reach the safe room their mark is hiding in. The time it takes him to stumble and regain his composure is enough to give her a head start as she unlocks it and slips inside, flashing him a grin just before she disappears out of sight.

Swearing, he runs headlong to catch it before it closes and he has to unlock it again.

Several gunshots go off and his fingers snag the door handle, yanking it back open so he can run in behind her before she gets to their victim. The room is dark, only one light bulb swinging ominously in the middle of the enclosed space. He ducks down and crawls toward a desk: the room is supposedly decorated like a home office if his floor plans were accurate.

There's another gunshot to his right and he frowns.

That's strange.

Silently, he creeps across to the source of the gunshots.

The sound of ragged breathing piques his attention and his stomach clenches. Something heavy slides into it when he hears Emma curse breathlessly and, dismissing the very real threat that could still be present in this shadowy room, he half-stands and sprints in her direction.

He locks his sights on her and swoops down beside her, behind a random outlying wall, just in time to avoid a sudden spattering of bullets.

One hand is clenched over her shoulder. As the overhanging light bulb swings, it catches on the sticky blood seeping from a wound in her shoulder.

"They were waiting for us," she grits out quietly.

"Must've heard about the hit."

"Limey bastards."

Killian smirks at her choice of words but drags his eyes away from her to peek out behind their cover. The light isn't swinging as violently now, but it still makes it hard to make out what moving shadows are human and which ones are object.

"Did you get any of them?" he whispers, turning on his heel and surveying the area around them.

"I got two in the head and another in the shoulder before they got me."

"Did you see how many there were?"

She hisses and he turns around to watch her shake her head, fingers clenching over her wounded shoulder. They must have hit a sore spot because Emma doesn't usually flinch at bullet wounds. If she did, she'd be in the wrong line of work.

"Alright, we're getting out of here," he says, shuffling around to her side. He starts to heave her close to him with an arm around her waist, still scanning the dark for any signs of impending enemies.

"But the mark," she complains.

"Sod the mark. You won't last ten more minutes with a bum shoulder."

"I'll be fine."

"Sure you will be. Once we get out of here, of course."

"I fucking hate you sometimes."

A smile tugs at his lips and he drags her up with him, sending her an apologetic glance when it jostles her shoulder. He uses one arm to secure her against him and the other to keep his gun at the ready.

The silence is suddenly very oppressive.

And there's something about this situation that just irks him more than usual. They're used to marks being on the defense, and some do indeed take the offensive. But he's got a bad feeling in his gut that he can't quite place.

Swallowing it down, he keeps a tight grip on her side then rushes them towards a collection of desks where they duck down.

"You know, I _can _technically walk on my own," she murmurs as they settle into the shadows.

"Perhaps. But not fast enough with that shoulder."

"You don't need a shoulder to walk, dumbass."

"Aye, but it will hurt more if you don't have something holding you steady," he turns to give her a smarmy look, "Trust me, _I would know_."

She purses her lips to avoid smirking: she was the one who shot _him_ in the shoulder last time. Killian looks out again and just avoids having his head taken off by another spray of bullet coming from the opposite side of the room. The door is nearby, but it's closed and they'll be exposed for too long pushing it open and running away.

Killian sighs.

"Stay down, I'll handle this."

"My hero," she drawls sarcastically, then clenches her teeth as he sets her down and her arm hits the back of the desk a little too hard. Killian moves towards the other side of the desk, crouched low.

He quickly and quietly strips off his jacket.

He tosses it out sideways and stands. Their assailant is momentarily distracted by the sudden movement, giving Killian just enough time to aim and fire two shots. The dark silhouette of a man lurches as the bullets land their mark, and ducks back down just in case.

There are no other sounds but he isn't stupid.

Even dogs know how to play dead, and these people might too.

"Go check it out, I'll stay here," she says, nodding behind her and, before he can even begin to argue, "I've got a gun. I'll be fine."

He gives her one last serious look, then decides she's right. They can't stay there forever and he'd rather eradicate the threat completely before they flee.

At the very least, he waits until she has her gun out and propped up in her one good hand before he starts to slowly and silently make his way around the room. It's only when he gets to the back, where their attackers were holding up, that his heart starts to thud just a little bit faster.

He spots three bodies strewn across the floor.

All three are unmoving.

It's too dark and he's not close enough to discern facial features but they're all men, too large and solid to be women. Which also means none of them is the mark: a slim man with weedy limbs and a pinched face.

_Bang!_

Killian stands up without thinking, peering out over the mass of furniture through the inky blackness to where a shadow is stumbling. He moves without thought, scaling a desk and a lounge chair in quick succession as he crosses the room back to where Emma was tucked safely away.

"Swan?" he calls.

He can hear the panic in his own voice and winces.

"I'm fine," she replies as he finally reaches her, watching as a man he doesn't recognize drops to the ground. Lifeless. He shares a glance with Emma, and then walks slowly over to the man to check his pulse.

He's dead.

Killian rubs his forehead warily and sighs, glancing over his shoulder at Emma.

"The mark isn't here. I'd say he had information deliberately leaked so he could catch us before we caught him," he says.

"He _is_ supposed to be a tech genius."

"Indeed."

Killian offers her a hand and she takes it. He pulls her up quickly and lets her settle into his side again. They start for the door, walking as smoothly as possible to keep her from jostling her arm.

It's quiet for a long time: most of the guards are dead or incapacitated by their hand and they know the layout. So there isn't much to talk about as they navigate the maze of hallways out to the exit where they step out into the cold.

For this reason, his voice startles her when it pierces the frigid night.

More accurately, when his humming breaks the silence.

She turns her head slowly to face him.

He grins and stops humming momentarily.

Twisting his head to face her, he holds her gaze when he starts up again.

There's a very sudden, unexpected pressure on his shoulder. Her fingers are lightly pinching the sensitive nerves at the junction of his neck and shoulder. It's a warning.

Killian grins, looks straight ahead and starts singing under his breath – right where he left off.

"I _need_ you darling, come on _set_ the tone, if you _feel_ you're falling won't you _let_ me know _oh-oh-oh-oh-oh-ooh_."

He nearly drops her because she pinches him so hard.

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**Review?**


	22. Chapter 22

**Thank you for sticking with this - I promise the inconsistency in updates (for all of my fics) isn't laziness/deliberate etc. Let's just say I hope 2016 is better than 2015 but at the very least you've all brought me happiness with your reviews. So thank you, and here you go. And I've got the next five updates written so hopefully things will go smoothly for the next couple of weeks.**

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_22\. you'll never see me coming: apparently not all hotel rooms have a television set_

It's been a long bloody day.

As Killian throws his backpack into a faraway corner of his motel room, he starts to shuffle towards the mini fridge. He needs some rum and a warm blanket – he might be an assassin capable of withstanding even the most horrific methods of torture, but at this moment, he is just an extremely tired man with grime under his nails and an impending delivery of fifty thousand dollars in his bank account.

Picking a bottle from the hotel's alcohol stock, he's about to claim the second of his well-earned prizes (the duvet on the bed has never looked so alluring) when the door rattles with four sharp knocks in a familiar tune.

She _could_ just pick the lock.

She must be just as exhausted as he is if she is abiding by social etiquette for once.

His lips twitch even as his eyelids droop closed. Forgoing the cup entirely, Killian gets a firm purchase on the bottle's neck and loiters over to the door.

"Miss me already, love?" he jokes as he swings it open and leans against the doorframe.

Emma folds her arms across her chest and lifts an eyebrow. Her hair is wet – she must have showered before she came here.

"Impossible to miss something you can barely tolerate."

Sharp as a whip, as per usual.

He does so appreciate that about her; she looks just as tired as he is, yet she still manages to use her tongue like a weapon.

Killian forces himself to focus on her eyes. It will not bode well for him to contemplate the skill she wields with her mouth.

"Then what are you doing here? If you're looking for pointers on how to take down a military magnate, I'm afraid I'm not in the habit of handing out tips" he says smugly, pretending to be bored and taking another swig of the cheap, poorly-made hotel-rum.

Emma reaches for the bottle as she unceremoniously brushes past him and into the room (she definitely had a shower – she smells like fresh soap).

"My hotel room doesn't have a TV and I'm bored."

"Aren't you buggered?" he asks incredulously, turning around and closing the door as he does.

He watches her make a beeline for the bed and takes absolutely _no_ pleasure in watching the way her hips sway as she crawls up onto it. Plopping herself down on the far side, she snags the remote control on the bedside table and turns the television on. Then she turns to him with a dry look and shrugs.

"Apparently it's very possible to be both tired _and_ bored. Imagine that."

She takes a sip of the rum in her hand and rolls her shoulder with a wince. That bullet must have done some serious nerve damage the other week if she's still feeling enough discomfort to elicit reactions. She doesn't usually do that.

Chuckling under his breath, he makes his way across the room to the bed. There, he mounts the mattress and takes up position beside her, carefully fixing his eyes on the screen.

"You're very snippy when you're tired. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Emma shoots him a dirty look but otherwise channels her waning energy into finding the perfect viewing position, pilfering his rum, and surging through the litany of boring programs until they finally stumble upon the opening credits of a film.

Then she wordlessly offers him the bottle of rum.

He grins, takes it, and drinks. Then he puts it on the nightstand and tries to find a comfortable position for what appears to be a movie about astrology – or maybe Shakespeare.

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It is neither a documentary detailing the constellations nor a biopic regarding the poetic endeavors of the literary great. There is no expounding of the stars and their erroneous locations. Apparently, it is, in fact, a tale of a teenage girl's romantic woes as she and her paramour navigate the cruelty of cancer.

They watch the film in silence side-by-side.

It leaves him feeling strangely content to just lie with her like this – there is no urgency to speak or banter (though lord knows they could if they wanted to).

For once they are merely enjoying each other's company as they slowly descend lower and lower down the headboard and into the comfort of the bed.

They polished off the bottle of rum together, but Emma kept going: she's imbibed a second small-ish bottle of wine and is currently sipping at a bottle of beer. And she has started commentating.

"Since when do people just randomly meet up and drive around together? Sure as shit wasn't like that when I was growing up."

"You're in love? You love her? How long have you even known her?"

"How old are these kids meant to be again?"

"Shailene Woodley has a nice face… so has the guy."

He just shakes his head and snickers to himself, content to let her drink herself to sleep tonight. He's not got the effort to stop her when it's clearly putting her in a good mood. So, rather than rock the boat, he holds onto his seat and lets her steer them down the rapids with another downed bottle.

Unfortunately, rapids lead to waterfalls and those are dangerous to fall down.

"I'm surprised," she says suddenly.

Killian looks between her puzzled face and the screen, silently waiting for some form of elucidation. When none comes, he asks, "Why?"

Emma sighs, plays with the neck of the bottle she has demolished.

"Actually no, I'm not surprised."

"What?"

She won't look at him, but she's definitely got a strange look in her eye. It makes him wary, because he knows that from time to time alcohol loosens her tongue in ways they both really wish it wouldn't. For both their sakes, he decides to distract her train of thought before she can voice it anymore: whatever has her 'surprised' isn't related to the movie and he's not about to let her divulge things she wouldn't ordinarily divulge.

"I think you've had enough," he says, reaching for the bottle and gently prying it out of her grip.

Emma glares at him and makes a lazy swipe for it, "Give it back."

"No."

He moves to put it on the bedside table, but she tugs his arm sharply back (it's a good thing the bottle it almost empty or the drink would have sloshed out of it with how jerky the movement is).

Emma points a finger at him and narrows her eyes, "Give it back or I'll kill you. You know I can. I do it for a living."

Killian cracks a smile, "I'm quaking in my boots. Truly."

She pokes him in the chest. It doesn't move him, but he knows on a normal day he would be bruised from the force of it: she must be heavily intoxicated. More than he realized. He curses himself a little bit for not keeping track.

"Don't be condescending," she slurs and swings her legs over the side of the bed to stand up. She stumbles a little as the alcohol takes its toll on her sense of equilibrium.

Killian watches her make her way across the room towards the mini fridge. He sighs, rolls his eyes, and scrambles up to stop her. She opens the mini-fridge door; he closes it just as promptly. Emma pulls around to look at him with a distinctly unimpressed look.

"Why must you ruin my fun?"

"I think you've had quite enough fun – my bill is going to be through the roof now that you've almost emptied the mini fridge."

"Oh _please_. As if you wouldn't have done it yourself."

"Aye, but in that scenario, _I_ would be the one enjoying the effects of inebriation all on my lonesome."

She cocks an eyebrow, but he can see something like hurt flash in her eyes, "Do you want me to leave you alone?"

"No," he answers, perhaps a little too fast for it to be purely amicable. Emma is quiet and he looks at the wall behind her, fishing for something to say when she suddenly shuffles closer and drops her forehead against his neck so her nose nudges at his collarbone.

He catches her, of course, and rests his hand gently on the back of her head.

"I'm surprised because you never take advantage of my drunkenness to pry, but I'm also not surprised because it's you and you never push even though I know you want to."

Killian exhales as slowly and calmly as he can despite the way his heart is thumping a staccato against his ribcage.

She breathes in, and he can feel her close her eyes for an extended moment.

"I'm sorry."

He doesn't need to ask what she's sorry for. He can guess: for being painfully guarded, for the walls she can't seem to pull down, for telling him what she just told him, for many things. But she was forgiven before she apologized, and he loathes how easily she can draw that kind of sentiment from him. Then again, he's also less than inclined to stop it when he can smell her shampoo and feel her nosing at his neck.

Killian allows himself the briefest brush of his lips against her hair.

"Don't be," he says.

Emma nods and then pulls away. She gives him a thin smile, "Let's just watch the movie."

8888

There's an unmarked tension in the air now. That doesn't stop him from getting drowsy, though. Killian watches the film through half-lidded eyes, vision blurring occasionally as fatigue creeps up on him. They've returned to the bed, but they aren't sitting up anymore.

They don't talk about what just happened. They never do: it's becoming a habit of theirs to avoid revisiting uncomfortable topics.

In a way, they are now facing each other on the bed. Lying on their sides, looking down the mattress to where the television sits on the opposite wall. It gives Killian the perfect opportunity to glance at her every once in awhile. Her lips are parted ever so slightly now that the story has regained her full attention. Her shoulders rise and fall with every gentle breath she takes. Her hand is tucked under her head and her eyes flicker as she drinks in the images on the screen.

He smiles something small to himself.

He's just about ready to drift off into the inky black oblivion of fatigue now. With hooded eyes, he decides he'll trust her to let herself out. She never stays the night.

Then he looks back at the screen and slowly closes his eyes. He is awake just long enough to register a voice (someone from the film, no doubt) whispering, "_I fell in love the way you fall asleep. Slowly, and then all at once_."

His stomach drops.

* * *

**Review?**


	23. Chapter 23

**It's not quite New Years but I refuse to believe Christmas has passed so Merry Newchristyearmas! **

**Also, consider this a catalyst of sorts. Things are going to change, starting now. Some of you guessed/requested this (which I love since this is among the first scenes I planned).**

* * *

_23\. coin drop__: Killian gets a new target, and Emma is not as understanding this time._

It's a Tuesday and a generally nice day.

The steady onslaught of rain is a soothing metronome against the window of his hotel room, a blurry mass of dark clouds blotting out the morning sky beyond it.

His phone rings. The classic Nokia ringtone is a stark contrast to the natural dulcet tones permeating the room and he puts down the book he was reading to seek out the singing device (Swan had teased him for the old fashioned sound bite as soon as she heard it, laughing hysterically and adding it to the list of things that apparently made him an _'old man trapped in a young man's body'_).

(He resents that title.)

Strolling across the room, he glances at the caller ID and answers. Gold's leathery cadence greets him, all business when he says, "You've got a new target."

Killian sighs long-sufferingly, "Send it through."

He hears the familiar intonation of a new message and pulls the phone away from his ear to take a brief look at his next victim. At least he'll finally get the chance to use his new tear-gas. It's premium grade: he stole it from a S.W.A.T escort two weeks ago.

The thought of lauding his new toys over Emma makes him smile before his eyes finally land on the screen.

His chest constricts and he struggles to breathe.

_No._

A lead weight slides down his chest and lands painfully his gut.

_No._

There is a very good reason it is considered imprudent to get attached in his profession.

He has always known this. Pragmatically, of course, it has been an inevitability since the beginning. That doesn't make him any less shocked; blinking rapidly as he hastily unlocks his phone and verifies the photo with the accompanying details. To his utmost horror, he is not mistaken. Not in the slightest.

Killian stares, mouth agape, at the candid headshot of Emma Swan staring up at him from his phone. It is black and white, taken from a distance. Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders as she crosses a street, scowling at some unseen figure cropped from the picture. A long minute passes where he cannot function, cannot _move_. He is physically and psychologically paralyzed in a way he hasn't been in a long time (not since that horrible day on the naval camp when he felt the poignancy of his brother's loss in every fiber of his being).

The rain doesn't sound so soothing anymore. It sounds like a mounting drumroll.

When he does eventually move, his limbs feel heavy and awkward as he restarts his pacing around the hotel room, almost crushing the device into his ear. Gold is repeating his name, an impatient question in his voice. Killian must have been silent for longer than he realized.

"No," Killian says. Simply. Brusquely.

"I beg your pardon?"

"No. Get me something else. I'm not taking this one," Killian replies tersely, shaking his head even though his handler can see nothing from the other end of the line. Gold is still flabbergasted.

"_Why_?"

"None of your business. Find me something else."

And that must be it, the defensive edge to his tone, the unmistakable way he snaps back, bites off his words, chews them up and spits them out in crushed syllables and jagged vowels. That must be how Gold knows something is off because the man goes unseasonably quiet. Killian practically sees the man's fingers steepling thoughtfully in front of him.

"Do you _know_ her?"

The tense silence that follows is all the answer he needs. Gold sighs heavily, his voice bordering sympathetic as he talks to his prodigy. It sounds forced.

"Well then you do realize that if _you_ don't kill her, someone else will. Just because this materialized on my desk first, doesn't mean it's not going to reappear on someone else's."

The weight in Killian's gut gets heavier. "Who ordered it?"

"You know I don't get that information."

"Has it been sent to anyone else?"

"Probably but I don't know."

He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, scrunching his eyes shut and pausing his route around the room.

For all he knows, Emma could already be dead. It's not as though they're in _constant_ contact. His fingers itch to send her a text and his heart squeezes painfully in his chest when he thinks about her wild green eyes rendered unfocused by the callous hand of some stranger, completely unaware of the inferno he just snuffed.

It's hypocritical for him to be so outraged by the idea considering what he does for a living, plainly so. But he has never claimed to be perfect. Only human. And humans, much to their chagrin, form attachments. Killian thinks about the swoop in his belly every time she smiles. Yeah, _attachment_ is the word for it.

Nevertheless, her chance of survival depends almost entirely on her price: the higher it is, the smaller the window of opportunity (and the less likely she will be to escape its purview).

"...How much?" Killian asks woodenly.

"Three million."

If she's not already dead, she will be soon.

"Fuck."

"Indeed, dearie. She clearly pissed off someone with _quite_ the resources," Gold adds coyly.

He's speechless, and as much as he'd like to say he doesn't know why - he really does. It's not difficult to deduce why the mere concept of her demise is so off-putting to him. That infernal film about astrology flashes in his mind's eye. More specifically, the quote he's been mulling over for the past month.

_Slowly, and then all at once._

He has let himself fall too far into her orbit.

Sensing his discomfort, Gold's tone softens with false commiseration, "Look at it this way, Hook. If _you_ don't put her down, someone else will and they mightn't be so kind about it. She's a pretty lass, and you know for a fact that not all mercenaries run by the same code you do..."

Horrifying images claw their way through Killian's mind as Gold's voice drifts off, the comment left deliberately open for interpretation. He's been in this business long enough to know women in particular tend to attract the scum of the mercenary industry. _Especially_ attractive ones. Especially ones like Emma who have pissed off a legion of people in their time. Especially ones like Emma who won't go down without a scathing insult and a hell of a fight.

Ironically, the only person he trusts to kill her with dignity is the only killer-for-hire who doesn't want her dead.

But Gold's words resonate.

If he doesn't do it, someone else will. And they won't be merciful.

Again, he is plagued by an onslaught of abhorrent imagery. Emma's scream echoes in his ears, and he scrunches his eyes shut and shakes his head in a frantic attempt to disband the mental image of her broken body beneath his trembling fingers.

It drives him insane on the spot.

He runs his fingers through his hair, paces enough that he thinks he will leave a permanent mark on the carpet.

With a bounty like that, the benefactor has already signed her death certificate. She'll be drawing mercenaries from across the globe – and that is _if_ she's not already dead. His gut churns at the thought that she could already be gone, her body left to rot in whatever ditch they left her.

It drives him to a conclusion.

It makes him lurch with the urge to be sick.

There's really only one option here.

_He_ has to kill her.

Something within him rears back violently at the idea but he stomps it down. She is already dead; it is only a matter of time now. This was always bound to happen eventually, mercenaries never live long.

He needs to find her first.

_He_ needs to kill her before any other self-serving wretch can.

"Fine. I'll do it."

"Call me when it's done."

He punches the _end call_ button and throws his phone across the room so forcefully it smashes a mirror and cracks the device's screen.

It's a Tuesday and it's the worst fucking day of his life.

8888

He finds her quickly, easily - he always finds her.

Emma almost smiles when he slips into her hotel room in Vegas, a quip on her lips and a quirk to her mouth until she sees the sharp blade he is drawing from his sleeve.

The greeting visibly sours on her tongue as her eyes narrow.

"There's a hit on you," he tells her soberly, taking one step into the room so the door swing shut. It falls into a place against the doorframe with a thud of finality. She shuffles back with every step he takes. It's the first time she has ever actively recoiled from him.

"Are you kidding?"

"I wish I was."

"If this is a joke, it's not funny."

"It's not a joke."

It would have been so easy to say otherwise, to have used her trust against her, lulled her into a false sense of security before slitting her throat. But he won't do it like that; he won't betray her like that (even if he will betray her like this).

"So you're here to take me out? Just like you promised?" she says in a voice like cement, reaching into a chest of drawers behind her. Her gun is barely in position when he lunges, tearing it from her grip and throwing it aside in one fluid movement. Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he tilts her head back, exposing her neck to the sharp edge of his blade where he holds it steady.

"I wish I didn't have to."

She maintains his gaze for a split second and then she's twisting out of his grasp, punching him when he recovers and evading the rapid slice of his blade in the process.

"That's a pretty empty statement when you're trying to knife me," she manages as they find themselves circling in the center of the room. She is definitely unarmed - wearing naught but a flimsy black nightgown.

He shakes his head apologetically, "If I don't kill you someone else will."

"How _honorable_," she spits, "and I suppose since we're friends, you think it's only fair that you reap the financial reward?"

Without warning, he lunges again. Their tangled bodies slam against a wall and he struggles to hold her steady for a long moment. When he does finally manage to keep her still, his forearms pressed against the fragile sinew of her neck, he shakes his head.

"I don't give a shit about the money."

Emma wheezes her response, "Oh, so it's the pride that comes with killing your only real competition?"

"Gods, _no_!"

She uses his vehemence to her advantage, blindsiding him with several sharp blows until he's keeled over. He can hear her swaying closer to him with every word. It doesn't take a social expert to know she is disgusted.

"Hide behind whatever convoluted little story you want. But I'm not just going to lay down and _die_ -"

He barrels forward, tackling her so they both land against a door that crashes under their combined weight. They land in the bathroom and a messy scuffle ensues.

"I never thought you would," is his response in between blows.

"I should have killed you back in Colorado!" she growls.

It is a desperate scramble for dominance and one that swings between them like a pendulum.

He pegs her limbs and shakes his head, unapologetically somber.

"You and I both know if I don't do this, lord knows what you'll have to endure before you finally die."

Her eyelashes flutter, the same gruesome fates occurring to her. She doesn't let it faze her for long.

She spins them so he is beneath her.

"So am I supposed to _thank_ you?" she hisses, "You want my _gratitude_?"

Her eyes bore down into his. The bitter taste of betrayal lingers in his throat and he frowns up at her with glittering eyes.

"I want you to hate me."

She is visibly unprepared for that, which makes it easier to buck his hips up and knock her from her perch. However, he cannot secure a purchase on any one of her limbs as she darts back into the bedroom.

The fight that unfolds is unforgiving; it rips through the room, destroying ornaments, damaging furniture, breaking frames and mirrors so the carpet is littered with debris.

Eventually though, they lie at the foot of her bed. Her shoulder is her disadvantage and he expands on that without mercy.

Covered in sweat and blood and bruises, he finally has her unequivocally restrained. She cannot wriggle out of this one, not without mortally wounding herself.

The edge of his knife is poised directly over her violently beating heart. He can feel it ricocheting against her ribs, thudding in time with the rapid thunder of his own.

Her sea-glass eyes are wild when they catch his, flitting up from the blade, a mixture of anger and shock in their brilliant green depths. Above all, hiding just beneath the surface of the steely strength, there is resignation: of her fate, of his choice, of the end.

It does him in.

He flexes his grip on his knife, mentally chastising himself for hesitating.

The longer he waits, the wider the window of opportunity for her to escape his grasp becomes.

He needs to do it now.

He needs to kill her _now_, before anyone else can; quickly, quietly, a clean drive straight to the heart - minimal pain. At the very least, she deserves that. A good death. An honorable death.

(_She deserves so much more than this._)

(_So much _better_ than this_.)

It must aggravate her – his hesitation - because she cranes her neck as far as she can in her current position, enough that the knife nicks her skin. Reflexively, he pulls his arm back just enough that it isn't digging into her but that just makes her push her head forward _more_.

"Go on then. Do it," she snarls.

He holds her gaze.

His fingers clench and loosen and clench again.

"Do it!" she shouts, "_Just fucking do it_!"

Her voice cracks and he sees the tears in her eyes, her façade splintering in tandem with her voice. Which is precisely when he jerks himself away from her so hard he stumbles, throwing the knife across the room as he staggers backward. Emma scrambles up instantly, snatching up her gun and training it squarely on him in a matter of seconds.

Killian falls back against the wall, defeated.

It is selfish. He can't bring himself to kill her. He isn't strong enough, never has been when it comes to her.

_Now she will die a painful death at the hands of a stranger because you are too weak_, a slimy voice in his head whispers. It sounds like Gold. Wetness builds in his eyes, wetness that he couldn't blink away even if he wanted to.

He breathes out heavily, shakes his head and stares at her with wide earnest eyes.

"I can't do it."

In all the time they've known each other, he's never seen Emma Swan waiver. Now though, she doesn't just waiver - she's _shaking_, trembling with something he doesn't want to name, fingers struggling to maintain their grip on the gun as she aims for his head. She swallows thickly, tries valiantly to control her breathing through her nose but loses the battle and exhales loudly.

"_Why_?" she demands.

Her tone is hostile despite the tears welling in her eyes.

Killian's gaze darkens with a storm of unchecked emotions, a fully formed monsoon of them surging up from the depths he had banished them too. It builds and releases in his voice: every moment with her, the learning and burning and caring and longing, the feelings he has never been able to compartmentalize. Like a volcano finally erupting after centuries of painful dormancy.

Strangely, there is no explosion like he expects there to be.

There is a quiet tension shattered by three soft words.

"You know why."

A silent tear tracks down her flushed cheek.

And then she's tossing the gun to the ground and striding towards him in one swift motion. He meets her halfway, gathering her in his arms so he can crush his lips to hers in a devastating, bruising kiss. Everything tumbles out then, every minute of tension, every second of pent-up frustration and desperation to be anything other than what they are.

They move together, heads tilting and teeth crashing. Carnal and desperate, it is all the words they never said.

(_I like you._)

(_I want you._)

(_I need you._)

She wrenches herself away mid-kiss.

He never sees her fist coming, only feels it connect with his jaw with enough force to knock him backward. He lands hard on his back, head rattling against the floor, vision blurring, black splotches appearing and disappearing everywhere he looks. He's too shocked to even try and say anything, too incapacitated by the blow to get any words out in the first place.

She has always known how to hit.

Emma appears, hovering over him. Her blonde hair falls over her shoulder in a golden waterfall and curtains her face as she crouches, leans down to cup his cheek with her hand in a tender gesture so unsuited to this situation.

"Take care of yourself, Jones," she whispers, "Don't come after me again."

It sounds like an apology as much as it sounds like goodbye.

His eyes roll back into his head as he falls unconscious.

* * *

**#sorrynotsorry**


	24. Chapter 24

**Merry Christmas**

* * *

_24\. bring me a brick wall: Killian dips into old memories and stumbles on old demons._

He doesn't know how long it takes for him to come to.

All he knows is that, when he does, it is to a throbbing jaw and an aching chest.

Killian blinks rapidly, reaching for his face reflexively and wincing when his fingers make contact with what is sure to be one hell of a bruise. The moments leading to his incapacitation flash in rapid succession in his mind's eye and he snaps into an upright position and scrambles to his feet.

And that was a _terrible decision._

The world spins and his stomach curdles. He staggers around the room in spite of the overwhelming nausea and imbalance, bracing himself on the wall, the desk chair, the boudoir, as he takes stock of what little she has left behind. It's a good thing he's wearing shoes because he steps on broken glass and porcelain fragments several times in his journey around the apartment. The gentle cracking of each delicate shard is the only sound to pierce the tender stillness.

Killian doesn't wince, just stares numbly at the mess they left behind.

How poetic.

Swallowing thickly, he decides to catalogue his injuries. Physical, that is. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to have broken anything. His left wrist feels like it may be sprained but not seriously enough to be a problem. There are scratches and bruises up and down his arms and he can _feel _many more all over his body. There's also that incurable ache blooming in his chest and he touches the skin over that area gingerly.

It's not localized and it's not sharp enough to be something worrying.

Besides, he's felt this before. He scrunches his eyes shut.

_Look after yourself, Jones._

He takes a shaky breath.

_Don't come after me again._

The shrill sound of a phone ringing jerks him out of his reverie and he whips in the direction of the source. It only takes him two strides to cross the space and snatch up the chunky device he recognizes as his burner phone. Lifting it silently to his ear, he waits for the caller to identify themself.

It is Gold.

"Hook?"

Killian's other fist clenches but he keeps his tone neutral, "Gold."

"Is there a reason you have declined to answer your phone until just now?" he asks tersely.

"I was unconscious. She got away."

"I know."

"Wha - _How_?"

"You never got back to me and she was spotted by a traffic light heading towards Mesquite in a maroon Cadillac not long ago."

Killian hums lowly, walks around the room again with more purpose.

"Don't worry," he says, rifling through drawers for something that might indicate where she's going. He doesn't find anything but he does pick up a strip of lace from her nightgown that must have been torn from its place during their fight. He holds it up, rubs the smooth fabric between his fingers. Then, more to himself than Gold, he mumbles "I'll find her."

"Please do. And be quick about it. You can't be the only one after her now."

The line goes dead and Killian slams the drawer he was searching through shut with a harsh snap. She wouldn't have left anything and he knows it: she's too smart for that. She knew he wouldn't heed her underhanded warning to let her go. He can't let her go, can't just let things be, not like this.

In all honesty, he isn't entirely sure what _this _entails.

He tried to kill her, he couldn't do it, she kissed him, she told him to take care and leave her alone, she knocked him unconscious. Now where do they stand?

He hears sirens in the distance and snaps to attention. The neighboring apartments must have called the authorities, which is unsurprising given the sheer level of debris they left in the wake of their fight. Killian gathers up his knife and his phone and runs from the room without a second glance, taking the stairwell down to the underground garage.

There, he seeks out the fastest car available and hotwires it. The vehicle rumbles to life under his ministrations and within minutes he is on the road, driving northeast in the direction of Mesquite. But where will she go from there? Why drive in that direction?

If she's running, she'll want to get out of the country. If she had what she needed, she would be heading straight for the local international airport but she _didn't_. Then again, he knows Swan doesn't carry her aliases on hand. Not when other mercenaries and law enforcement agencies could pick them up should she unintentionally drop them. He vaguely remembers her inadvertently telling him once where she stashed them.

Killian racks his brain for the place.

He vaguely remembers the way she'd pointed a finger at him and threatened to keelhaul him if he ever used it against her.

8888

He is surrounded by never-ending desert and dry, rolling tufts of grass when it slams into him.

Or, more accurately, whispers to him through the radio.

He's not listening, not really. His thoughts are consumed by a thousand other things: how he ever thought he could kill her, how he will ever begin to explain why he even tried, how she will react when she sees him again, how he will keep her safe now that there is a heavy axe looming precariously over her neck, how anything will ever be okay again.

Something makes him focus though, the radio station raving about a storm warning off the east coast as he drives through clouds of dust and dirt kicked up by any number of things crossing this great plane.

_Storm._

His back straightens like a rod and Killian pulls over. His eyes stay on the endless road that stretches before him as his brain starts to buzz with recognition.

Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he _remembers_.

The abandoned warehouse, the fold-out chairs, the waiting game while the authorities gradually dispersed from the scene of their crime, the childish segue from topic to topic early into the next morning over steaming cups of coffee they pilfered and prepared in an old deserted break room. He remembers her face, veiled in shadows, half-lit by the milky glow of the moon, the way her eyes had stayed trained on him when he traced the rim of his cup in idle motions, relaying pointless factoids to pass the time.

"_If I weren't what I am I'd be a sailor. I love the sea. Go figure, given my naval career."_

"_I prefer lakes."_

"_Why?"_

"_Less chance of capsizing in a storm."_

"_So you must _hate_ Hurricane?"_

"_Hurricane as in Utah? No, it's… okay. Quiet. Isolated. The kind of place I like. It's the perfect place to raise a family… or so I hear."_

"_You go there often? Isn't that ill-advised for people like us?"_

"_Only often enough to check no one has taken my stuff, and I always wear a – don't laugh ass hole – I always wear a disguise."_

"_You expect me not to laugh at the mental image of you wearing a horrible wig and fake glasses?"_

"_Shut up. It's smart: no point in having them know I'm a regular visitor."_

"_What stuff could a nomad like you even _have_ there?"_

"_You tell me. What stuff does an assassin need should things get sticky?"_

"_Oh. I see."_

"_Probably shouldn't have told you that."_

"_Realistically, why would I steal whatever you've got there? And that's _if _I could manage to narrow it down to one location in that town, darling."_

"_Touché… but if you ever use that against me, I'll keelhaul you."_

"_Did you just use a sailor's threat?"_

"_Maybe I did."_

Killian shoves the gearstick into drive. The dust flies up behind him and he presses his foot against the pedal harder, whipping away as fast as the car will carry him, almost flying through the crack of dawn, towards _her_.

Let him be keelhauled if it means finding her.

8888

It's not a massive township but it's big enough that he has no clue where to start. Initially, he tries cruising the streets for her (big bad international assassin he is, prowling the roads of Hurricane for his girl like a lurking degenerate). But it is to no avail, and he soon figures out that he's only drawing attention to himself.

So he makes his way to the main street, visits every shop with the candid greyscale photo Gold sent him. He doesn't have any other photos of her: she never let him take one. It feels strange to have so little evidence of someone so important ever existing in the first place.

To his utter misfortune, no one has seen her recently or ever.

He's about to leave the last shop, turning on his heel with a muttered curse of her name. The store attendant calls him back with a look of bewilderment.

"Did you just say _Swan_?"

Killian pauses, considers the old woman.

"Why?"

He hasn't bothered asking after her name this entire time.

Emma would never give them her name, alias or otherwise. So he finds it bizarre that this lady would recognize her alias and makeshift surname of all things.

She shrugs, "It's just – there was a family who lived a little further out. The Swans. They moved a couple of years ago and the house was sold. But no one lives there? It's a nice little place – _was _back when it was actually being used. A couple of people have tried to grab it but the owner won't let it go or move in. I guess that frustrates some people. It's a shame to see such a pretty place go into shambles."

8888

He texts Jefferson on the drive over.

Halfway there and he has a pile of state documents waiting in his email.

They arrive in his inbox with a high-pitched _ping _from his phone but he's just pulling past the reported Swan residence so he doesn't check it immediately. It's an old American-style abode with a rotted portico and missing balustrades. The paint is peeling and the occasional wafer flutters to the ground without prompting. It looks like a strong enough breeze could strip the thing of its color completely in one long peel of stucco.

Killian looks around as he drives by at an acceptable speed but no one appears to be home, no car out front and no shadows in the windows. Just as the shop owner said: _abandoned_.

He drives further down the street, parks his car so he still has a decent vantage point, and fishes out his phone as he settles in to open Jefferson's email.

_Hook. Found the documents, you should know it wasn't easy to get a hold of them. Someone hid them under a tectonic plate of data fuckery. A suspicious amount of effort for a pool of monotony if you ask me._

And Jefferson is right. The Swan family are as mundane as it gets and every file relates to some aspect or other in their life: marriage, school, their eventual and unexplained departure some years back where the house was sold to an anonymous buyer using a fake name. At the bottom of it all he finds something that finally piques his interest.

It's something from the foster system.

A little girl, six years old, that the couple were willing and ready to adopt twenty or so years ago. It fell through, according to the documents, and she was sent back after two months. Something about the mother falling pregnant and them not having the means to finance a second child. Killian feels bile rise in his throat. Returning a little kid like an unwanted store-bought item.

It's harsh, even to him.

From there the little girl's association with the family ends.

For him it just begins.

_Emma Smith_ is printed across the top of the page.

There's a photo too, and Emma's eyes haven't changed all that much.

A brief information sheet regarding the child's history is attached and he scrolls down, reading rapidly and feeling his chest constrict with every digitally printed sentence. How she was abandoned on the side of the road, found by a kid and dropped into foster care, hopped from family to family even in her early years. There is nothing listed after the attempted adoption but he knows enough to fill in some blanks. He remembers the cigarette burn on her hand.

He lifts his eyes to the street, shaking his head and dropping his phone onto the passenger seat. He braces himself on the steering wheel and inhales deeply, actively _not _thinking about how he's just joined the shamefully long list of people to ever let her down.

_She took the name of her first foster family as her alias_, he thinks distantly. He can only imagine what led to her to choose that name, to choose _this _the place as the one where she would force herself to regularly visit. Masochism at its finest.

A reminder that she was abandoned.

Before he can muse the logistics of quite literally punching himself in the face, something in his rearview mirror catches his attention. His eyes are halfway to the rearview mirror when his car lurches forward so violently he thinks he cracks a rib at the sheer force of it.

Metal crunches, smoke rises, and he snaps back into his seat with a painful, heart-stuttering thud.


	25. Chapter 25

**A festive interlude before things get messy.**

* * *

_25\. 'tis the season: this might just be the first Christmas Killian has spent at home._

Christmas. A mercenary's least favorite time of year.

Something about the inherent joy of the holiday season tends to put people's hearts at ease, and people with eased hearts are, on average, far less likely to commission murder. It must be something to do with the general merriment, generous libations and liberal gift giving.

Whatever it is, for this reason December is considered 'slow season' for assassins. _Typically_, that is.

If you're particularly good at your job, December is no different to any other month.

For example: the past two years have seen Killian spending the holidays chasing down intel before a big hit. It's really too bad that people in his line of work don't have a union. If there were, he'd have already penned a very strongly worded formal request for penalty rates. As there is no regulation agency for mercenaries, Killian can do nothing but cross his fingers and hope the holiday season this year will stave off any jobs.

He's actually fairly optimistic this year.

His last job was fulfilled two weeks ago (Swan is still salty about it), and since then Gold has had nothing for him. It seems like he's actually going to have the time to settle into a hotel for the long weekend.

Thursday rolls around and, walking through the snow-dusted streets of Manhattan, he feels something like anticipation. Not that he has any gifts, or really anything of importance to do, but it will be nice to just sit in his room, eggnog in hand, and watch the seasonal programming. He makes his way to _Fairytale Refreshments_ out of habit.

The doorbell rings as he enters and his eyes zero in on a familiar blonde head.

She glances over at the sound and catches sight of him. She's at the front of the line, midway through ordering, and he makes his way over to her (much to the irritation of the line of customers behind her).

"Can I add a chai latte to that order?" she asks, just as he sidles up to her.

The barista smiles and nods. Killian follows Emma to the waiting area at the other end of the counter.

"Buying me drinks now, Swan?"

She comes to a stop and turns to give him an incredulous look, "You think I'm paying for it?" She holds out a hand, "I did that for convenience – cough it up."

The indignant expression he pulls is half-arsed and he knows it, rooting around in his pocket for the change. When he finds it, he slaps it in her hand, "Convenience?"

"You're telling me you wouldn't have gotten shitty if I'd made you wait in _that _line?" she asks, gesturing to the steadily growing line of people waiting patiently for their turn to order. He trails it with his eyes: it appears that his favorite coffee house is no longer his 'little secret.'

His feigned annoyance disappears quickly and by the time he turns back to face her again, he's wearing a smile.

"In that case, I owe you great thanks."

"You're welcome."

He doesn't think he should mention that she remembered his drink order.

Killian looks to the empty booth they occupy whenever they manage to cross paths here and taps her shoulder; "I can wait for our beverages if you would like to reserve our spot." She follows his gaze and hums her approval, whirring on the spot to maneuver her way across the room and into the cushioned side of the booth. When he has both takeaway cups, he starts for their corner.

He lifts his cup to his mouth and – it's not his cup.

But it's not coffee either.

Killian licks his lips and considers the sweet flavor. He reaches their table and hands her the cup of questionable liquid, sitting opposite her as he washes it down with his own drink. That's when he recognizes the cinnamon edge to what he thinks was a hot chocolate.

"You didn't get your usual order of watered coal?" he asks.

Emma narrows her eyes, "You tried some of my drink?"

He lifts both hands in supplication, "Not _intentionally_."

That doesn't change the look on her face and she tilts the cup back for a long moment.

She licks her lips when she finally pulls it away and shakes her head, "I don't drink coffee at Christmas. Not without reason, anyway."

Killian smirks, "Getting into the holiday spirit with a warm cocoa and was that _cinnamon_?"

"Gives it a nice kick, don't you think?"

He nods, sips at his drink.

"Thought you didn't like sweet drinks."

"It's the only concession I make to all of _this_," she gestures vaguely to the garlands decorating the shop, an undercurrent of disdain in the way she does. He frowns and quirks his head to one side, studying. When she catches him, she gives him the universal expression for '_what_' and he smiles.

"I should have pegged you as a Grinch."

"Fuck off."

"What's not to like about Christmas?"

"What's _to_ like?"

Killian barks a short laugh.

"You mean other than the idea of curling up with a good book and some eggnog in front of a roaring fire?" he says incredulously.

She just keeps staring at him, waiting for an answer. It would be unsettling if he didn't know her so well; the curves and edges that make up the enigma that is Emma Swan, deadly mercenary. Instead, he feels sad for her. Maybe it's because he knows she never rhymes without reason. Maybe it's because he wonders what could possibly have happened to make her hate this time of year. Maybe it's because he thinks it has something to do with her life-long isolation. After all, it's hard to enjoy a family holiday when you have no family.

He would too, he supposes, if he didn't still remember his time with Liam fondly.

His amused expression dies a bit and she opens her mouth to say something when there are two sharp beeps. His pocket vibrates and he reaches for his phone, pulling it out and praying it isn't what he thinks (_knows_) it is. Glaring at the table top, he waits for the message to load as he unlocks his phone and registers Emma working on her phone as well.

She has a similarly begrudging look on her face.

As the screen finally loads, he takes in the picture and accompanying information followed by the reward sum. He sighs, looks up and meets her gaze.

"Jordan Meiers?" he says soberly.

Emma nods, "Yup."

"From Indianapolis?"

"The very same."

They both sigh and empty the last of their drinks. At the same time, they set them down on the table and lock eyes again.

They must look like children when they finally move, a flurry of limbs as they slide out of their seats and shove their way towards the door in an unspoken race. They part ways once they're out, but he definitely looks over his shoulder to check her progress jogging down the street.

8888

Twelve hours later, they're fighting a path towards their target: a mafia magnate with some sour customers on the higher end of the socio-economic spectrum. The bastard should have known better than to make enemies of rich people.

_Really_, in the mafia you would figure that kind of thing was a given.

That doesn't concern Killian or Emma though, as the two ultimately corner him. He has the first shot but "misses". It's his last bullet and she looks at him suspiciously. In response, he shrugs and grins.

"Merry Christmas," he says nonchalantly, walking away before she's even finished the job.

She catches up to him in the escape, walking fast down a corridor they don't belong in. At some point, he feels her nudge him in the ribs. He looks down and she's side-eyeing him with a smirk.

"You're welcome," he says.

8888

They find a warehouse several miles from the target's home. Far enough away that the authorities won't find them, and Killian finds a break room on the second floor: it is stocked with a microwave, coffee satchels, and an abandoned box of butterscotch fingers. The biscuits aren't past their expiry date and so, with a sense of satisfaction, he eventually makes his way back to Emma with two cups of black coffee and a plate of biscuits. It's not quite what he'd usually drink but it's warm and for her he'll make do.

She looks up from where she is wiping down her gun, picking at the handle grip, and beams.

Taking a seat on the opposite foldout chair, Killian hands her the second cup and sets the plate on the wooden box between them.

Steam rises off the coffee and his breath comes out in white wisps, but he's not that cold.

"Where'd you find this?" she asks around a butterscotch finger.

He gestures up, "Break room. Don't worry, I used my gloves."

Emma rolls her eyes, "Of course you did."

"Well you can never be too careful."

He watches her look around the large storage room, smiling gently to herself. In the distance, he can hear the fireworks begin to crack. The flashing lights don't reach them here but he feels a wave of something warm wash over him nonetheless.

"Sorry you didn't get your tree and eggnog," Emma says, staring at her cup.

He shrugs, "This is fine."

She looks up at him, a question in her eyes, and he grins. The one where he feels his eyes crinkle and he feels somewhat goofy. Strangely enough, she returns the expression. His heart squeezes, gentle warmth blooming in its absence.

"Good," is all she says.

He takes a sip of coffee to distract himself.

As the hour grows late and Emma falls asleep in her chair, Killian ponders the notion that home is a person and not a place.

He thinks there is some merit to the idea.

* * *

**Reviews are Christmas gifts**


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